I never could have thought my keyboard transforms so naturally into a grand piano every time I write. The prelude, the exposition, the recapitulation: it's my mind that creates; the fingers execute.

from the brexit diaries/31st January 2020

the only borders

I see from up here are blue-

gold-green alliances…


you’ve locked the sea you

say, or you’ve tried to but those

waves will dash higher


than Ben Nevis or

Macdui when they do; and

you’ll know when your


un-bleeding sluices

your patios, declots the

bread and honey you


stash away or hope

to now but can’t because no

man is an island


and no one munches

on gold strips or swigs goblets

of blood and oil;


no one not cries the

first cry, nor not laughs the other

side of it all


nor writhes in pain, nor

not dies their final death; yes,

you’ll know when your songs


die unaccompanied,

your colours fade to ivory;

you’ll know that shades


harmonize, that blacks,

browns, yellows, know just how to

bleed your whites to red