The Calm Before the Storm

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.

A Quiet Witness

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.

The Whispering Veil

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.

Sleeping Giants

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

Top Withens, in Snow

High on the Yorkshire moors, the ruins of Top Withens lie wrapped in wind and weather. Though not a direct model for the house in Wuthering Heights, its presence evokes the raw emotion, haunting beauty, and storm-tossed spirit that animate Emily Brontë’s novel. This poem explores that atmosphere—where landscape, literature, and memory entwine beneath a blanket of snow.

The Heart of the Moor

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.

The Storm and the Edge

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.

Calm Is Found Where Water Falls

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’s Grim Up North

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.

Where Water Meets Stone

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.

Storm Over Scout Moor

Beneath a sky of charcoal rage,
Where thunder scrawls on lightning’s page,
The moor lies wide—a haunted plain,
Its grasses lashed by spectral rain.

Tall sentinels of whirring grace,
The turbines haunt this desolate place.
Their ghostly arms in silence flail
Against the storm’s unholy wail.

A Moment Gone, Yet Not Alone

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.

"O’er Ashworth Moor tha’ Looks"

Now then, sit thissen, tek a breather,
Tha’s climbed enough to sweat through t’ether.
Cast tha’ peepers ‘cross yon land,
Where bog an’ breeze go hand in hand.

Tha’ clouds drift soft, like cloots o’ cream,
While moorland hums a golden dream.
Water’s still as Sunday prayer,
Holdin’ shadows like it cares.

The Barn Remembers

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.

The Broken Moor

I stood where silence wears a crown, where ghosted hills in velvet drown, and in the hush of rain’s retreat, the world bent shining at my feet.

A wound of colour split the skies — a living fire before my eyes. A bow of flame, a whispered spell, that only fleeting hearts could tell.

Three Years Whispers, Scout Moor High Level Reservoir

Over the past three years, I’ve returned time and again to Scout Moor High Level Reservoir, drawn by its quiet presence and ever-changing face. Through shifting light, seasonal transformations, and countless solitary walks, I’ve come to know this place in a way that only time allows. This collection of images is more than a visual record—it’s a conversation with the landscape, a study in patience, and a personal reflection on the beauty found in stillness and repetition. Three Years’ Whispers is my tribute to the subtle magic of place, light, and time.

The Crisp White Canvas The Pack Horse Inn Hebden Bridge

A simple journey culminating in a moment of peaceful contemplation in nature. An evocative descriptive poem.

A Winter’s Dream

A winters dream. A poem focused on capturing a specific moment and the feelings associated with it, escribing the stillness and beauty of a winter morning.

Resilience And More

a poem that captures beauty and melancholy of historical landscape. Imagery rhythm and contemplative tone creates a powerful emotional experience for the reader

Perfectly Imperfect

Perfectly Imperfect. This poem is a compelling and evocative piece of writing that beautifully celebrates the beauty and value of imperfection.