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 (for more, you can visit

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.


News & Events


Listen to

and download poems

on the Poetry Archive


Saturday, 7 November

MAP: Poems after Wiliam Smith's Geological Map of 1815


at the Festival of Geology

12.45 - 2pm

Garden Room, University College London

(entrance on Gower Street)


See more on events here.


Some Reviews


Interview on LitNet

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




The villa’s whitewash clotted
scarlet with geraniums,
the bougainvillea’s purple
bruise smeared inbetween –
I sit here, mottled,
in the shadow of the vine.
The sea is welded
to the sky, a beaten
shield, enamelled, glittering
and everything is molten,
rich, beneath this sun,
such grandiose munificence,
the alchemy transforming
even me – slowly, in thrall,
from milk to gold. After
a day among the ruins
of Pompeii, dust still clings,
a pale reminder, to my shoes,
but now I watch the yachts
below and ring the ice against
the bottom of my glass,
an answer to the winking sea,
the tinkling of the masts.
Remember Ripley, wish
I didn’t wish for all of this
and more.  This lustrous,
postcard life. Hear
how my darkened hallway’s
silence shudders at the falling
to the mat, implacable,
of crisp, clear-windowed
envelopes, that smother
my bright rectangle,
its foreign stamp,
the lines I sent back
to my dull domestic self,
Wish you were dead,
and I was always whole
and golden, always here.

         From A Fold in the Map



























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