parental advisory explicit content

⚡ For the Wind Turbine Haters ⚡

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.

A trickle carves the stone with grace,
Soft hands that shape a silent place.
No need for thunder, rage, or roar —
The stillest streams can wear the shore.

I am the bones of shelter past,
Stone-stacked and weathered, built to last.
My frameless window, once a watchful eye,
Now frames the hills where echoes lie.