I’ve heard that when it rains in Albion for forty days and forty nights, the mist dragons move out to sea to mingle and play among the clouds. I’ve heard it because they told me themselves; I saw two and two again dancing on a rare slip of cirrus floating above Purbeck on Sunday. “Rain is the water’s joy,” they said, and they showed me how to make medicine from marsh fire. “Warmth flows heart to heart, hand to hand,” said the dragon. “The Druids knew this: Albion is a watery

A song is a wild horse That you court with your voice A swift spirit Who belongs to the land.

The idea came to us all at once. I remember where I was at the exact moment it happened.

A poem is a grey man moulded from river clay. I’ve seen him shuffling out of a copse of alder trees, handless and bandaged, seeking some str

There is a spider god living underneath my bookshelf, a thousand-eyed, thousand-armed horror. His name is Avalokiteshvara, and he eats books

Here lie the bones of Yelena Calavera. She was an excellent companion as I navigated the wasteland of my writing career during my twenties. Perfectly equipped with the full suite of apocalypse skills, she offered water and shade, shelter from the harsh realities of writing and publishing in the era of social media. That is, until she stopped me from writing...