November punched its winds at us. Blind, we raked remembrance and glory. Blind grot from combat now in books is still our iron harvest. — Two sources were the inspiration for this poem. A friend’s Facebook status about the discovery of an unexploded shell in his local Swedish neighbourhood prompted me to look up aContinue reading “UXO”


Its last pulse was the echo of an interior draught. Some time ago the sluggish monopod had taken its leave. Beached on the concrete path the brown shell has no way of putting itself at safety. The unseeing crunch the barren passageways underfoot. — The above poem is about an abandoned snail shell like theContinue reading “Collapse”