My most recent collection The Tempest Prognosticator is published by Salt in the UK and Random Umuzi in South Africa. My earlier collection A Fold in the Map is published by Salt in the UK and Jacana in South Africa. You can read more about these books and other publications (like joint work on the sinking of RMS Titanic, The Debris Field, published by Sidekick Books) here, along with poems, details of forthcoming readings and the odd snippet of news.

I am currently working on a collaboration with Scottish artist Douglas Robertson, inspired by DH Lawrence's poems in Birds, Beasts and Flowers. More detail and images can be found here and in forthcoming journal publications.


New Work


'Nobodies' in launch issue of The Mimic Octopus

'River Mother' & 'A Missionary in Neon Green' in Bare Fiction 2

'Suitcase Heart' in Popshot 11 - The Journeys Issue

'O Philandrium' & 'Finsong' in Magma 58.


Other work forthcoming in:

Prairie Schooner


Verse Junkies

The Dark Horse

The Interpreter's House

The New Statesman

Poems in Which

Magma 59



The Mimic Octopus launch reading,

Friday 9 May 7.30 pm, The Betsey Trotwood, EC1R 3BL

See more on events here.


Some Reviews


Interview on LitNet, May 2013

Debris in The Island Review

British Council Writers

The Tempest Prognosticator

'Dixon's Strange New World'

'Rich Reward for Readers'

A Fold in the Map:

The Mail & Guardian

The Financial Times


 Untitled Spring


The daffodils come tumbling
down the slope, yellow avalanche nudging
the windows of the Byre:
'Let us in! We've been firing poets up
since before you were even a bairn!'


They've Spring to burn, my father's favourites.
All of London's parks were splashed
with their bright tides as we raced past,
throats tight with fear and love and knowing
this was it, to catch our sudden flight.


Each flared and fluted nod a tiny semaphore
of this depleted decade's words, what-might-be-
said, the-here-no-mores. My echoing spring,
my mother's muted autumn in the south.

I tell her of St Andrews' daffodils.
That's nice – but she hasn't had bulbs in
since Cynthia sent the hyacinth, back then –
so dear, and they don't last.

There's yearning in the things we almost say;
it's off-hand, at a tangent, that she shares
the most. Last time at home, the sum of it:
Each day I miss your father more.


StAnza, St Andrews, March 2012


Originally published in Dream Catcher 26.