Through the addition of our loves,
We will not harm each other,

Though others may try to divide us,
And though our enemies may forever multiply,

Always remember –

Our love is greater than all others,
For even though the gradient may grow steeper,
So we shall grow closer together,

So our Memories will hold only each other,
And the Sunshine of your presence will sustain me,
Keep me working,

There will be no error to our love,
There will be no secrets,
No little brackets to hide things,

There will be only us,
As we gaze up,
Looking out towards the infinite stars.


An Arabian Dream

I recently started reading “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran, and was inspired to write this. The Arab Spring was a huge source of inspiration as well. As always, any  comments and (helpful) criticism much appreciated.

Imagine you are a grain of sand.

One amongst many,

You stand,

And are crushed upon,

Sat upon,

Pressed down,

Beaten deeper.

And then you have a thought.

You move a little,

Make your way up,

Put yourself not as an attack against the world,

But as a rock against the tide.

Not moving out, certainly,

But neither giving ground.

The grain next to you does the same,

Takes a stand,

Passes on the message,

Until your dune begins to move,

And the next,

And the next,

Until the whole desert stands,



The rock against the tide,

And then men join.

Honest men,

Good men,

Who, in the silence of their heart have heard the desert,

Have taken up the call of the rock in the waves,

Have thrown off their yokes and said


“We haven taken so much hurt,

We have born the pain of your pettiness,

Of your greed,

But this ends here,


No more do we bow down!”

And in the silence of the desert the bird flies forth,

On silent wings,

Because now is the time of reckoning,

Of the ending of dictators,


This is the time of the Arabian Dream.

An eight-mile race

Another poem, this time about a Kayaking race I did today, in support of AccessibleBoating, which does fantastic work helping to introduce disabled or handicapped people to the world of boating. I was racing to keep my gold from last year, so this was a pretty tough challenge.  Here’s my thoughts…

The water laps gently,


As I begin, with eight miles left.

Paddle in, paddle out, twist and repeat.

I have found my rhythm.

Then round a corner –


Why must there be swans?

I must stop – wingéd danger is gliding towards me.



And then he turns and I am off.

 I am off and the prow comes out of the wave, lifts,

And I am flying, skimming across the surface,

Sheer savage joy at the freedom of the river –

I am making good time – very good time;

Ten minutes gone and only seven miles left.

Eventually, after losing myself in imagination as I always do during a race,

I realise that I am perhaps four minutes ahead of the next person.

The three-mile mark!


And then back around for the next leg.

But I can see the phantom now, as the mirage of pain grows in my shoulders –

I had not expected this at only half way.

Half way, with all that entails – perhaps a rest?

 But I must be nearly done for the six.

One hour ten – the goings good.

But now I really am in pain,

My shoulders aflame and my neck torn to shreds,

With one mile to go I get a “keep going” from the warden –

What the hell does he know?

He isn’t racing; He isn’t even on the water!

Sitting there with his tea like some English country gentleman,

How I wish to slap it from his hand.

And then, with five hundred metres to go I begin to sprint,

Stars pop before my eyes as the pain reaches new peaks,

The water surges,

And then I am done.

Oh, blesséd relief!

I just hope I have done enough.


Salvatore Morettsi – A short story

I’d recently watched “The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen” when I wrote this, so any similarities to other storys about paintings are (mostly) unintended. Salvatore is something of a recurring name in my short stories by the way. It isn’t the same guy though, mostly.

The Portrait

Lord Morettsi sat in his armchair admiring the portrait on his wall. He stared at the portrait. The portrait stared back. “A particularly good likeness of me, don’t you think my dear?” he asked the high backed chair in the corner.

 “ I don’t think so” said the Lady Morettsi.“They missed out that servant girl you were sleeping with.” Lord Morettsi went white, the blood draining from his face like water from a windowpane.

 “ How did you know?” he rasped, rising from his chair.

 “ She told me.” Lady Morettsi said coldly, also standing. She laughed. “ She seemed very eager to keep the rest of her fingernails attached to her fingers. It’s a pity that the spatter from her head exploding ruined my dress.”

“ You killed her?”

“ Most people die with half inch spheres of lead in their brain. “

She reached down and picked up his revolving rifle, custom made for him by Lang of London, and cocked it, bringing it up to her shoulder with fluid ease. Lord Morettsi didn’t move.

“Go on then” he said quietly “End it.” She did not fire.

“Run, you gutless bastard!”

“ I will not give you the satisfaction.”

“Then may you earn back some of your long lost honour in death”

The muzzle flashed three times, and Lord Morettsi flew back, blood already pouring from his chest, and slid down next to the wall.

Except that he didn’t. In his shirt were three round holes, certainly, but there was no blood. No gaping wounds. He smiled, drawing his sabre from inside its walking stick disguise. Three seconds later the Lady Caterina da Pallazo Morettsi left her life, and another woman walked in through the door. She smiled at the portrait.

“It’s a good picture” she laughed, “ Not very life-like any more, but don’t look at it. You know what will happen if you look at it.” For in the chest of the portrait were three blood spattered bullet wounds, identical to the ones that were- the ones that should have been- in the chest of Lord Salvatore Morettsi.

The first poem… I hope someone reads this.

Well, here goes. Any comments or (helpful) criticism would be much appreciated.  It doesn’t have a title, by the way.

I’m not really what you think.

In your minds I’m the gurgling stream, the babbling brook,

Harmless, insignificant, pleasant, cheerful even,

Not at all savage or brutal.

You tend to forget the storm,

The wild waves,

The floods,

To dismiss them as inconveniences

To your warm and pleasant untruth.

The men I killed,

The many, many men,

Lie forgotten, neglected,

An irrelevancy in this modern world –

But I will come.

I will come for you one day, with my boiling surf

My icy whip,

And your death shall be the death of many,

Of one great deadly surge,



The one certainty.

I am your very life-blood, the very means of your existence,

You sit in your homes,

Talking of petty, insignificant things,

And I watch, my pent up pressure perhaps feet away from you,

And you do not even think.

Your puny minds cannot even comprehend the magnitude of my might,

You bow and scrape to your paper rectangles,

To your metal discs.

How I hate you.

You frolicsome animals,

How I despise you,

Laughing in my presence,

Scarring my very body with your petulant whims.

Silence, children, silence.