Bones of creation


Yes, the bones are,


Beneath the flesh.

Nothing hidden.

Nothing left.

Sun piercing,

Through the canopy,

Casting shadows into,



Yes, the ribs are,


Above the chasm,

Where the heart once wept.

Leaves turning,

Beating softly,




Yes, the bones are,


The skull,

Once decapitated,

Still surviving,

Naked truth.

The keys turning,





# First etching


# Playing with possibilities – overprinting, gouache, compressed charcoal.



I am totally, unconditionally,

In the present moment.

With women bathing,

Sun seducing,

Wind blowing, sweet

Caresses on my naked

Limbs curled,

Back bent,

Hands busy,

With pencil


On the brink.

River calling,

Trees blessing,

Sky floating,

Canvas waiting,

Goddess gracing,

Nature offering.

I receive.

I’m blessed.

I rest.

If the grass was any greener

If the grass

If the grass was any greener,

I would not stop crying

Tears of joy.

I could not,

Can not,

Delight any more,

Than this moment

Of perfect composition.

If the sky was any bluer,

My smile would break,

The injustices that crouch

In the dark corners,

To shine with delight

In every stolen moment.

Knowing the Tree


Of course you’ll find a home, rustled the seed pods outside my window. What do you need but peace over your head? The dark bird pecked artfully and uttered a startled cry. Use your wings, my love, that’s what they are for. Then she dropped a seed. Peace is only in the mind. The air was still for a moment. Grab hold of the present, sang the red-winged parrot! It’s in your heart. Dewdrops swayed to the song of the rough-grained bark. One small beetle rustled wet leaves. A spider spun. I caught my breath. The time has come.

The postcard

I did not cry when I heard the news. There was nothing more after Henri died. Another postcard handwritten with care. ‘Je t’apprends une mauvaise nouvelle’. This time it was Adele. They arrive from time to time, sad news from another life, another time, to pierce my new world. I close my eyes and dream of the fields where I planted and reaped friendships dear enough to be family as the old people return to the soil.

Roget and Adele, France, 2014

Henri Jambart, France, 2010

Into the ruins


There is no doubt

You were already the muse

Long before I crossed the seas

To step on your shore.

Headless, formless

Voice in a bottle

You stepped on mine,

Leaving footsteps

Deep in sun-drenched sand.

This is our land.

Ruined, broken

Civilizations lost and found.

We built this world

On whispering trees

And mountain Gods.

The Goddess cries,

Dive deep

Into the ruins.

I dive.




Be careful what you ask for

On the eve of the new year I climbed the sacred mountain with twenty pilgrims. In silence. We circled the tors, sentinel stones, weathered, mute, belonging to no-one but their Mother Earth. The mountain gods wailed, whipped at flesh, sucked the last heat from bones and threw thoughts to the sea. I waited. The ants, far below, rolled rock. It’s time, they railed, you know you can move your own ground. I swallowed my silence. Love, abundance, non-attachment. The words fell at my feet, flew to the sky.