top of page


Dark is the palette of my sock drawer 
I open it and bats fly out
All that's missing is a moon, and a Werewolf howling at it
I could pick a sock at random, tie it around my arm and pay my respects to the dead
My sock puppets are dressed for a funeral
They cry dark cotton tears
Magpies without the white bits
Humbugs without their stripes
Badgers covered in coal​

bottom of page