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Poem About the New Domain (Which Is Not a Big Deal, Apparently)
I bought a domain. It felt like the thing to do. weatherinmyribs.com;a name that suggests I’ve thought this through. I haven’t. But the link works, and that’s really the whole achievement.
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The Distance We Carry
The story bends north long before I arrive,a woman carrying four childrenas far from harm as she can manage,finding Thurso at the edge of what’s possible.My dad grows up in that far light,learns the sea’s voice, leaves when work demands it.Years later, I come for my own reasons,thinking I’m starting from somewhere else,and feel the…
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The Well Best Forgotten
At the edge of townthere’s a well everyone swearsthey don’t visit.Too dark,too deep,too full of thingsthat were never meant to be pulledinto daylight. But every nightyou can hear the rope creak,the bucket scraping stone,the hush of neighboursleaning over the rimto see what’s floating there. They say the well shows truths.They say it reveals dangersbefore they…
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The Thought I Lost On the Way to the Kettle
I had a thought worth keeping,sharp enough to write down,but somewhere between standing upand deciding I deserved a cup of teait slipped out a side door in my mind.By the time the kettle clicked on,all I could rememberwas that it had felt importantin the way small things sometimes dobefore steam and habitcarry them off.
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We Taught Rocks to Think
We taught rocks to think.Not the old way, where stones held storiesbecause someone carved them in,but the stranger way;taking sand that once knew only tides and pressure,purifying it until it forgot it was earth,slicing it thin enough to tremble,and persuading it to carry lightningin patterns precise enough to mean something. We etched pathways into silence,coaxed…
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The Blueprint
I keep laying out blueprintsfor things I’ve already built.Not because they need fixing,but because I can’t stop seeingthe empty spaces between the lines. Everyone else points at the structure;the beams holding,the rooms lit,the whole thing standingexactly as intended.They call it solid.They call it good.Some even call it beautiful. But I’m still at the drafting table,pencil…
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Memories of Amoxicillin
There was a bottle in the cupboardthe colour of weak sunshine,with a label half‑peeledand a smell you could recognisefrom three rooms away.Thick as custard,sweet in a way nothing natural ever is,it clung to the spoonlike it didn’t want to let go. We hated it, of course;the way it coated your tongue,the way it lingeredlong after…
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A Stack That Doesn’t Vanish
I want money in my wallet,not a promise, not a tease;just a stack that doesn’t vanishevery time I sneeze. I want cash that feels committed,notes that don’t go on the run,not this “poof‑it’s‑gone” economythat thinks it’s being fun. I want coins that hit the tablewith a confident little ring,the kind of sound that tells youyou…
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March is a Threshold
March hangs between seasonslike a door left ajar,letting winter mutterand spring clear its throat. The ground softens reluctantly,still feeling the cold,still unsure whetherto trust the light. But something in the air shifts;a quiet insistence,a pulse beneath the soil,and you feel the worldleaning forward.
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Weather In My Ribs 