I wrote Deer around this time last year. The very excellent Ash Akhtar read it and decided to do something with it; this short film is the result. The narration is by Chris Fairbank (yes that one) and Ash made the beautiful music under his Suborno moniker. It’s a privilege to have been involved.

You can see more of Ash’s fabulous films and some of our collaborative work over at the Fervent Arts YouTube channel.

Ranging in twilight’s palsied silver, at the summit of autumn’s blaze.
Acorn litter, balled under arches –
Demosthenean props, rolled around the woods’ bronzed gape.
Beyond this, nothing is said.
Instead, we go undeceived, suspended in the updrafts of the old silence.

Rooks roil westward, lint in the eye of the sun’s liquid falling.
We crouch at a field edge, thick with dewy foreshadows;
you gather chestnut husks, the needles lancing your palms.
Then: a studied tilt, a new pressure behind your eyes, and there
not ten feet away, belly-deep, scrape-hidden, a deer. A deer.

Before, I’d carry you out, out to sleep off the afternoon’s bright daydreams,
and the deer would always come. They were your anxious, peering avatars,
come to see this strange two-fronted stalker abroad in their crucible of beech-caught light.
Once, walking through a pixellated summer night, a deer watched us home,
A distant, timid chaperon of dusk’s rough palisades.

Now, as the woods shrink, as time shrinks, acre by sodden acre, they come less frequently.
But I feel them, a soft presence at the edge of things,
a modest, unspoken rapture.
We gather each other, and for the briefest moment I wonder if you’re going to stay.
Not yet, I think; not just yet.


Winter is icumen in

Very happy to say I’ve got a piece in the new Winter anthology from Elliot and Thompson – part of the ‘Seasons’ series, edited by the fab Melissa Harrison. It’s bizarre being in the same book as Coleridge, Robert Louis Stevenson, Gilbert White and Kathleen Jamie but I’ll take it. Buy ten copies! Or one.


The forest; a spot just off the road.
Aside from the odd distant car, it’s quiet, still.
The green is deep and various: moss, wild tussocky grass,
the trees in their last flush, the skirts of ferns.
On the heaths and moors, there is a breeze,
but here, sheltered, nothing moves, save for the odd blush
sighing in the oak crowns.
A nuthatch calls. Robins tick and scold.
In the middle distance, I think I hear a willow warbler –
my first of the year – homing for the warm south.
The last of the land’s held heat is dissipating;
the air bears the first rumours of the coming winter edges.

In my muggy oak-held hollow, I think of fires,
I think of night heavy against the windows,
and how days such as these are about gathering –
gathering light and the spaces in-between:
a store, a bulwark against the plight of lengthening dark.
In the tree tops, scurrying armies too gather,
too feel the pull of the north, the coming cold,
the pale backward glances of retreating summer.
It’s in these rifts, these seasonal interstices,
We feel fullest the passage of the flailing hours.
But there is always this forest, these trees;
The resolve that this will pass, will come again.


Shopping centre; just after midday. A cafe, half in bleached atrium light, half given to damp shadows and sodium striplighting. The kids sagged, but now, fed on hot chocolate and shortbread are gone to distant corners, their bouncing birdsong shrieks returning from improbable angles. Under the blanket buzz, couples sit in phone-glows and amiable silence. Children tic, burble, eructate. Then there are those in solitude: well sitters, silent sharers. I think to peer in, but am afraid the solitude is sacred, not oppressive. Next to me, quilted and perfumed, sits an older lady, nursing an iced coffee, her head shaking almost imperceptibly. What would I say? What would I ask? What troubles you?

She chuckles; a learned laugh of masking and coping.
“Troubles? Ach. I’m waiting for my daughter. Fifteen minutes late!”
Her left hand is tight on her bag, pincered at the silvered clasp.
“She’s been to the doctor’s. I probably shouldn’t say, but I think she’s going to have to have a hysterectomy. Only 46. The whole lot out. Like emptying a suitcase.”
Her hands, free of her bag now, don’t shake. She rubs them together, the skin ridged like lines on wind-ruffled sand dunes. She blows on them, her head shakes increasing to a noticeable wobble.

“Do you notice it?” I say “if it’s not too rude to ask?”
“What’s that?” she replies.
“Your head, I mean. Sorry – I’ve always wanted to ask.”
“Oh, that. No, not really. It used to make me nauseous at first, when it started. It came on really slowly. I thought it was vertigo or something – like stepping off a long flight and still feeling like your flying. I used to feel sick. But there’s a pill for that.”
She smiles and twinkles, reaching into her bag. She rummages and pulls out what looks like a trapped white ladder, about a foot long. It’s bulk is separated into seven compartments, each bearing a day of the week. She shakes it next to her ear, the contents rattling.
“Pills for everything.”
“I’ve seen into your bag, but I don’t even know your name!” I say. She’s peering beyond me, looking, searching.
“Barbara. Thank you.”
“Matt”, I give back.
“I don’t know why I came over. Sorry. It’s becoming a bit of a habit.”
“Oh, I think it’s nice” Barbara says. “People are so worried about intruding. I think we should wear badges ‘happy to be spoken to!’ something like that.”
“Does it happen at night?” I ask.
“The head thing? I don’t know. Most things do.”

I wonder if it’s re-enactment; a passion play of the nervous system. That carnival of hours, inscribed, strung along the neural pathways, returning, relived. Maybe it’s an exorcism.

R returns, following a crumb-line of peals and squawks.
“We’re in WH Smiths, looking at pens. Then we’re going to Claire’s Accessories. We need things.”
“This is Barbara” I say.
R mutters a hello and body-mutters a kind of curtsy. Then she looks up, obeying unheard instruction, and is off.

Barbara is beaming. Solicitous.
“They’re either breaking your arm, or breaking your heart.”
The light above has shifted, blue sky flooding through the smeared, beshittened atrium glass. Barbara’s glasses have lightened, too, and I see her eyes for the first time, milky with cataract ghosts. I gaze upward and think I should probably go.

“Twenty minutes late now. I hope everything is OK.”
She extends her neck, the tremors increasing in pitch, and peers over my head. A small boy is hacking, emphysematic to our right, his mum wiping his nose, proffering a drink. I hear R’s babble. The birds are calling.
“Whatever happens, I hope everything works out” I offer, moronically.
“Thank you, Matt. Look after those little ones.”

Above, the clouds have blocked in the sky once more. A chair is dragged, braying. I take a final slurp of tea, but it’s cold. I glance at Barbara and she’s rising in her seat, her eyes gone to the middle distance. I can’t read her face but follow her eyes to her approaching daughter, bustling in pink. I wade from the cafe and hear R giggling. Like water, like falling rain.


We go out late, drawn on by the promise of light.

A farm’s edge: we stand transfixed by the pale blaze of evening, the rolling land, the caged thunder of pigs; skylarks hang in the middle air, dancing, dancing above the stiffened spires of green wheat. We climb a hill, hands brushing chamomile, brushing the new flush of borage. At crest, we watch the wind press the barley; a bristling song of inconceivable patterns. A hare, massive in its hind quarters, quivers, plays, circling beneath the squat bulk of a grain silo. I catch you in the corner of my eye, rippling in your skin, alive in the growing arc of your consciousness.

We crouch in a lane of wet shadows, tracking the wheezing hum of yellowhammer song. We pull ourselves along, reeling them in. There: crisscrossing, conflagrant in the choirs of an ash crown.

The day closes, the solstice sun at the cease of its long, long falling. Trees gather in half-night. We strain against silence, hoping for owls. As we break for home, a deer coughs breathsmoke at the soaring moon.


The first time I came to you, newly free
of that warm, wet dark,
I flew towards the eye of the never-setting sun;
A half-moon hung over
The pink dustings of a cloud rippling sea.

Above the khaki wastes of Greenland,
An isthmus lapped at the ocean;
Its names – Angmagssalik, Sermersooq, Mittivakkat –
Were like throaty Hebraic glossolalia;
Echoes of the earth’s first voicings.

Beneath us, the cloud drew itself out.
I imagined beyond the horizon a dragon hung,
Benign and silvering in the half-formed night;
It’s hot breath a weightless, buoyant cloudstream
Keeping us aloft, drawing us onwards.

And in that great bloom of thickening white,
Now a blanket, now a downy swaddling,
I slept and dreamed of you waiting,
Held in an awhiawhi of grateful arms,
A mile-high miracle of quivering sleep.

Now we wait for you to come,
Come across the same wide rippling abundance.
And we sleep to dream that hanging dragon,
Hung beyond all our horizons,
And we ask that he keep you safe.

Bovine hades

I came upon them in the cavity of dusk –
A mass of huddled damp gravity,
Stertorous in the grip of their great ongoing labour.

The thought came, as it often does in their docile presence:
What goes on in that occluded brain?
What gilds the soft furnishings suspended above the churn of that ruminating mouth?

In my darker hours I have wondered,
Wondered what it would be like to be trapped there.
Pressed up against a great wet eye, unable to attend.

Even on an evening such as this,
Cool and copper, at the cusp of the season’s turning,
It is a hell too fresh to dwell upon too long.