Kingdom
Kingdom is more than a poetry book—it is a ritual in six elemental stages that readers step into rather than simply observe. It is a pilgrimage of self discovery.
Learn MoreWalk With Me
Rooted in the walls, water and weather of northern England, Kingdom unfolds as six linked rites—one sustained passage through memory, loss and renewal.
These poems guide a pilgrimage through grief, masculinity and survival, marked in coal, ash and scar, yet flowing toward a new shape of knowing. Kingdom is not merely read; it is undergone.
Step inside and discover how the stories we inherit, through endurance and quiet grace, become the sovereignty of the self.
Publication details forthcoming.
Sycamore Gap
A poem written the day the iconic tree on Hadrian's Wall was felled—an exploration of how a public loss can expose our own private fault lines.
1
Not storm-felled.
Nor thinned by slow seasons.
Taken.
Someone ordained its end.
I never touched its bark,
never sheltered in its particular shade.
But I felt the impact—
a fracture, sudden,
deep in the chest's frame.
Some losses arrive unearned—
shadows that cleave, unsought.
This was one.
It stood.
Not in defiance.
Not in pride.
Simply, was.
Nor thinned by slow seasons.
Taken.
Someone ordained its end.
I never touched its bark,
never sheltered in its particular shade.
But I felt the impact—
a fracture, sudden,
deep in the chest's frame.
Some losses arrive unearned—
shadows that cleave, unsought.
This was one.
It stood.
Not in defiance.
Not in pride.
Simply, was.
2
They came with steel,
as if such stillness
held no anchor.
Metal through heartwood—
not for warmth,
only to assert
dominion.
Something in me clenched—
a wire,
a knot,
a core of heat
that found no outward vent.
What hunger
voids what gives no threat?
Not true need.
Not elemental rage.
Just the old, cold thrill
of breaking
what another holds dear.
as if such stillness
held no anchor.
Metal through heartwood—
not for warmth,
only to assert
dominion.
Something in me clenched—
a wire,
a knot,
a core of heat
that found no outward vent.
What hunger
voids what gives no threat?
Not true need.
Not elemental rage.
Just the old, cold thrill
of breaking
what another holds dear.
3
It stood. I flinched.
It offered shade. I cast my own.
Does beauty render one
so unbearably slight
the only answer is to erase it?
A name for the tree;
no single word for the hatchet's drive.
I mourn what grew—
not the hand that swung.
I stood
in the created gap.
The wind moved differently,
a current unmoored,
searching for form.
Birds circled, hesitated—
no perch.
It offered shade. I cast my own.
Does beauty render one
so unbearably slight
the only answer is to erase it?
A name for the tree;
no single word for the hatchet's drive.
I mourn what grew—
not the hand that swung.
I stood
in the created gap.
The wind moved differently,
a current unmoored,
searching for form.
Birds circled, hesitated—
no perch.
4
The sky itself
became a question.
And I?
Like flawed glass
cooled too quickly—
spider-webbed with cracks
before the shock registered.
Once,
I fractured a kindness
just to hear its sound.
A tenderness
I could not sustain.
What part of the self
tears at grounding roots
and names it liberation?
became a question.
And I?
Like flawed glass
cooled too quickly—
spider-webbed with cracks
before the shock registered.
Once,
I fractured a kindness
just to hear its sound.
A tenderness
I could not sustain.
What part of the self
tears at grounding roots
and names it liberation?
5
Even now, a sliver of me
acknowledged the clearing.
Not the absence—
but the clean, stark ruin.
A silence
unearned, almost unfelt.
The worst of it?
I knew that impulse.
That flicker—
the arid spite
that dismantles
merely because it can.
I have known it.
In small betrayals.
In mean-spirited moments.
The way I, too, have unmade
what was shelter
for me.
acknowledged the clearing.
Not the absence—
but the clean, stark ruin.
A silence
unearned, almost unfelt.
The worst of it?
I knew that impulse.
That flicker—
the arid spite
that dismantles
merely because it can.
I have known it.
In small betrayals.
In mean-spirited moments.
The way I, too, have unmade
what was shelter
for me.
6
Not trees—
but trust.
Another's presence.
Their unguarded care.
And I pulled at the threads.
Too rigid
to need
what sustained me.
So I do not stand
apart, unsullied.
I stand
implicated.
Not only in the act—
but in the wider human quiet
that grants such acts their space.
The tree is gone.
What remains is this:
not stump, nor empty sky,
but the flat, raw space
where roots were torn,
and my own, quiet
understanding
of the saw's barren logic.
but trust.
Another's presence.
Their unguarded care.
And I pulled at the threads.
Too rigid
to need
what sustained me.
So I do not stand
apart, unsullied.
I stand
implicated.
Not only in the act—
but in the wider human quiet
that grants such acts their space.
The tree is gone.
What remains is this:
not stump, nor empty sky,
but the flat, raw space
where roots were torn,
and my own, quiet
understanding
of the saw's barren logic.
Memory Is Fire
A poem from the book's opening rite, exploring memories that don't gently arrive, but ignite upon contact.
1
Some memories don't arrive—they ignite.
They wait in the breath, in the pause before speaking.
When they come, they don't unravel—they flare.
Not history, but contact. I flinched.
No scene; the body speaking before language.
We breathe—lungs lined with tinder,
each breath a struck silence.
Memory isn't archive. It devours ritual.
Ruins what it keeps.
We kneel—ash-blind, ash-blooded—
summoning what resists the grave.
Fingers sift grit for hush,
for warmth twitching in wreckage.
And then—we breathe again.
They wait in the breath, in the pause before speaking.
When they come, they don't unravel—they flare.
Not history, but contact. I flinched.
No scene; the body speaking before language.
We breathe—lungs lined with tinder,
each breath a struck silence.
Memory isn't archive. It devours ritual.
Ruins what it keeps.
We kneel—ash-blind, ash-blooded—
summoning what resists the grave.
Fingers sift grit for hush,
for warmth twitching in wreckage.
And then—we breathe again.
2
The ember listens. It flares—
not who we were, but what endured,
burning beyond grief's visible range.
Smoke threads the ruins.
Light fingers what I thought was buried.
It stings—sweet—a mercy
scarred to gentleness.
Memory lies,
or invents us, more gently than truth would.
A cough through thin walls.
Someone else's sorrow. I am back:
paraffin breath—not prayer. Just breath,
bare as it was.
not who we were, but what endured,
burning beyond grief's visible range.
Smoke threads the ruins.
Light fingers what I thought was buried.
It stings—sweet—a mercy
scarred to gentleness.
Memory lies,
or invents us, more gently than truth would.
A cough through thin walls.
Someone else's sorrow. I am back:
paraffin breath—not prayer. Just breath,
bare as it was.
3
My father—match rasp on rusted sink.
Curtainless window. Flame in his cupped hand,
held like apology.
Smoke stalled in his throat until the room exhaled.
Not warmth. Not anymore.
A lesson: fire leaves the body
faster than the body leaves flame.
Longing isn't proof.
Even love can cauterise what it once kindled.
Breath alters flame—but flame won't stay.
Some embers bite—flaring teeth.
Others twitch like nervewire in the severed dark.
Curtainless window. Flame in his cupped hand,
held like apology.
Smoke stalled in his throat until the room exhaled.
Not warmth. Not anymore.
A lesson: fire leaves the body
faster than the body leaves flame.
Longing isn't proof.
Even love can cauterise what it once kindled.
Breath alters flame—but flame won't stay.
Some embers bite—flaring teeth.
Others twitch like nervewire in the severed dark.
4
Some curl inward, carbon knots.
Others collapse
into black ligature—syntax without heat.
Still—we stir them.
Not for memory, but for what hasn't happened yet—
something mute and coming,
brushing our hands in ash,
choosing what we lift, what we let go cold.
Not by forgetting—
but by the ache of loving beyond its use.
So we breathe—not to remember,
but because the fire calls.
Not metaphor—it spits. Waits.
Names us in voices we've buried,
each syllable flayed.
And the ash? It forgets names,
but not the heat. Not the hands
that stayed too near.
Others collapse
into black ligature—syntax without heat.
Still—we stir them.
Not for memory, but for what hasn't happened yet—
something mute and coming,
brushing our hands in ash,
choosing what we lift, what we let go cold.
Not by forgetting—
but by the ache of loving beyond its use.
So we breathe—not to remember,
but because the fire calls.
Not metaphor—it spits. Waits.
Names us in voices we've buried,
each syllable flayed.
And the ash? It forgets names,
but not the heat. Not the hands
that stayed too near.
Descent
Set at the ferocious Cauldron Snout waterfall, this poem stages a confrontation with rupture—a descent not downwards, but inwards.
1
It does not fall.
It fights—
each inch wrenched free,
each roar a raw
refusal.
I came because rupture lived in me,
needed a kindred break.
Cauldron Snout obliged.
The dolerite shines—wetblack, bloodless;
it remembers pressure.
So do I.
This land: unforgiving.
It speaks
in fracture.
It fights—
each inch wrenched free,
each roar a raw
refusal.
I came because rupture lived in me,
needed a kindred break.
Cauldron Snout obliged.
The dolerite shines—wetblack, bloodless;
it remembers pressure.
So do I.
This land: unforgiving.
It speaks
in fracture.
2
Mist clings:
an unnamed guilt.
Breath trapped—
a choked sound
in the throat of stone.
I feel every limb,
then none.
Closer. Sight-held.
The water knows you;
will not let you thin.
My ribs
tremble toward it.
Each drop drills—
a slow unmaking
of self.
an unnamed guilt.
Breath trapped—
a choked sound
in the throat of stone.
I feel every limb,
then none.
Closer. Sight-held.
The water knows you;
will not let you thin.
My ribs
tremble toward it.
Each drop drills—
a slow unmaking
of self.
3
Call it fall,
this descent.
Not down:
in.
Memory cleaved—
not gone, dislocated,
like bone,
or faith.
Grit
through fingers
forgetting
what gripped.
Mist in the mouth.
I taste stone—
bitter, burial-cold.
Not symbol.
Stone.
this descent.
Not down:
in.
Memory cleaved—
not gone, dislocated,
like bone,
or faith.
Grit
through fingers
forgetting
what gripped.
Mist in the mouth.
I taste stone—
bitter, burial-cold.
Not symbol.
Stone.
4
The cold
that waits,
wantless.
I descend
on memory's frayed thread,
bones recalling
rites carved
when wind was word.
Something pulls back—
less fear than the once-whole.
I kneel.
Not to pray.
My knees meet stone—
a giving way
from within.
that waits,
wantless.
I descend
on memory's frayed thread,
bones recalling
rites carved
when wind was word.
Something pulls back—
less fear than the once-whole.
I kneel.
Not to pray.
My knees meet stone—
a giving way
from within.
5
I wait.
Not for god—
for the mouth
behind the roar
to name me.
Sound inside
and outside
one.
The self:
water-unravelled,
nerve-end rethreaded.
A gull cleaves the torrent—
one cry
louder than the falls.
I flinch:
memory's mercy—
not return.
Not for god—
for the mouth
behind the roar
to name me.
Sound inside
and outside
one.
The self:
water-unravelled,
nerve-end rethreaded.
A gull cleaves the torrent—
one cry
louder than the falls.
I flinch:
memory's mercy—
not return.
6
I breathe
in the torrent.
Ache, become form—
not healing.
A language
un-gentle,
true.
Slowly—
not clean,
not whole—
I rise.
I walk.
Still wet.
Still bearing
a silence
known
by weight.
The scar sings:
not healing—
the voice
of what endured.
Life, crawling back,
raw, alive
through the break.
in the torrent.
Ache, become form—
not healing.
A language
un-gentle,
true.
Slowly—
not clean,
not whole—
I rise.
I walk.
Still wet.
Still bearing
a silence
known
by weight.
The scar sings:
not healing—
the voice
of what endured.
Life, crawling back,
raw, alive
through the break.