Where mirrored waters hold the colours of the hills, Naden Valley breathes a quiet spell of amber light and drifting dusk.

“When the Rain Returned to Scout Moor” is a vivid, immersive poem that captures the moor’s quiet resurgence after the long, sun-scorched summer of 2025.
Through rich imagery of rain, earth, and stone, the photographer/poet evokes the moor as a living landscape — each drop of water reviving the soil, streams, reservoir, and stirring the ancient soul of the land.
From the windswept Scout Moor and Pendle Hill, to the soft exhale of valleys below, the poem is a meditation on nature’s patience, resilience, and the deep, subtle rhythms that shape the world around us.
Its careful attention to sound, scent, and texture draws the reader into a moment of reflection and awe, standing still on “breathing ground.”

On a morning of biting frost and ghostly cloud, the photographer/poet/local fool climbs above Rossendale’s sleeping valleys to find Peel Tower jutting proudly from the mist — a monument to endurance, ego, and England’s coldest virtues.
With dark humour and aching beauty, “Frostbite and Other Victorian Values” turns the landscape into a mirror: one where human pride, history, and the need to outlast time stand shivering together in the pale light of dawn.

Written on New Year’s Eve 2023, “What’s That Coming Over The Hill” reflects a solitary night spent camping on Marsden Moor beneath a storm.
While fireworks echoed from distant villages, the photographer/poet faced the wind, rain, and darkness alone — searching for meaning in nature’s raw embrace.
The poem moves from the howl of the storm to the hush of dawn, exploring themes of solitude, memory, and quiet renewal.
As night yields to sunrise and the laughter of grouse, the question “What’s that coming over the hill?” becomes a meditation on what follows us through time — and what we rediscover when all else falls away.

Beneath the woodland canopy, nature hosts her own high-society parade. “The Royal Ascot Mushroom” captures a mushroom’s elegant, hat-like form — poised as if ready for the races, brimming with quiet wit and woodland grace.

a lyrical meditation on quiet light and ancient presence — a poem inspired by the soft glow of a single mushroom growing beneath an old hawthorn tree. In this piece, the woodland becomes a cathedral of stillness, where time breathes through bark shaped like forgotten faces and the air hums with damp earth, moss, and memory. A delicate daddy longlegs pauses on top of the fungal light, embodying both fragility and grace. The poem explores the harmony between decay and renewal, reminding us that peace can be found even in the heart of darkness — in the hush where life, death, and wonder intertwine.

is a cheeky, irreverent poem that tears down the myth of “normal.” With biting humour and playful honesty, it explores the absurdity of conformity — from beige routines and schoolyard standards to the secret quirks we all hide behind tidy lawns and IKEA shelves. Instead of celebrating the average, it raises a toast to the peculiar, the kinky, the gloriously odd. Equal parts satire and celebration, this poem is a loud, unapologetic declaration: normal never existed in the first place.

A meditation on silence, memory, and the quiet sentinels that remain when human industry fades. Set in the hushed greys of a moorland quarry, the poem weaves mist, stone, and living presence into a tapestry of loss and endurance. At its heart stands a ewe — part spirit, part witness — embodying the resilience of the land and the unspoken stories it holds. Through imagery both stark and tender, the poem invites readers to pause, to listen, and to encounter the spaces where history lingers in stillness.

Through the eyes of Scout Moor High Level Reservoir, the moor remembers.
It speaks of a time before stone walls hemmed the streams,
before steel touched the sky —
when Edwin Waugh walked the wild hills
with only the wind as his guide.
The reservoir does not mourn nor boast,
but holds within its mirrored face
the breath of a poet,
the toil of miners,
and the enduring song of the land.

The moor doesn’t arrive with sound — it seeps in, slow and certain, like mist curling through thought. Out there, I’m not defined by flesh and history, but by grasses, wind, and sky. My tent rests at the centre of it all — fragile, quiet, a moment of stillness held in canvas and breath.

There’s no need for words. The land speaks in its own soft language — a bird’s call, the hush of bracken, rain that drips unseen. And in listening, truly listening, I become part of it.

The moor doesn’t ask who I am. It simply is. And in its indifference, I find peace — not loud, but whole.

parental advisory explicit content

⚡ For the Wind Turbine Haters ⚡

Scout Moor: Blown, Screwed, and Still Paying for It

They said the wind would save us.
They said the blades would bring light, warmth, and change.
But out on Scout Moor, the turbines rise like smug white gods — whirring, humming, always watching.
This poem isn’t just a rant. It’s a love-hate hymn to the great green lie — to the techno-pricks on the hill and the silence they never keep.
For the wind turbine haters, the sceptics, the shivering, swearing souls:
This one spins for you.

captures a haunting moment in the Lake District, where nature’s serene beauty masks an approaching tempest. Through evocative photography and dramatic storytelling, this work explores the fragile line between peace and chaos during Storm Debi in November 2023. Join me as I recount the harrowing night when a perfect autumn scene gave way to fierce winds and rain, and how preparedness and a hidden cave saved the day. A vivid reminder that nature is breathtaking — but never gentle.

is a quiet meditation on presence, found not in grand gestures, but in fleeting, ordinary moments — a robin on a moss-covered branch, the hush of water through woodland, a camera forgotten in favour of simply being. It’s about what the wild offers when we stop seeking and start paying attention: not just beauty, but belonging.

Beneath the hush of ancient trees,
Where dappled light drifts on the breeze,
A veil of silver water sighs,
Its voice as soft as lullabies.

It dances down with a cool caress,
Through moss and stone in quiet dress.
Each droplet sings a gentle song —
A hymn to time, serene and long.

A lyrical nature poem exploring ancient trees, flowing water, and the quiet mystery of time. Let the silence of the woodland draw you in.

A silver brook through fern and blade
Like thread through cloth is gently laid.
It winds where moss and shadows sleep,
Through rocks worn dark and ledges deep.

They said, “You’re mad to chase a storm—
no light is worth the cold and harm.”
But something stirred that wouldn’t rest—
a pull, a whisper in my chest.

I should’ve turned; the signs were clear:
the clouds grew low, the rain drew near.
But Blackstone Edge loomed sharp and vast,
and dared me not to let it pass.

Hidden deep where wild things grow,
beyond the paths most walkers know,
a waterfall begins its song —
not sharp or strong, but soft and long.

It slips from the rock in silver threads;
like whispered thoughts, the silence spreads.
Each streamlet curves with tender grace,
a dance of light on the stone’s worn face.

It were blowin’ a gale as I clambered up top,
wi’ gloves that were soggy and fingers like rock.
Weather turned sharp soon as I left tent —
aye, Pennine tricks, wi’ their cold-hearted bent.

Trig point stood there, bold as brass,
white as bone in a sea of grass.
Perched on a rock, all battered and green,
weathered by storms and things it’s seen.

I stepped where sunlight scarce would tread,
Where stone and water softly wed—
A hollow carved by time’s own hand,
A hush more present than the land.

No silence, this—a breathing still,
Where shadows clung with ghostly will.
The walls were damp with ancient tears,
And the air was thick with mineral years.