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Folklore warns of the


Of the bog 

Beware the wetlands 

The black water and the mist 

The suffocating fog 

The mud that clings like oil 

And so in twisted history 

With the misplaced confidence  

Of self anointed gods 

They dredged it and

Buried it 

Farmed it and reclaimed it 

Some great theft from the dark spirits 

And assorted ghouls of the 

Cursed soaked soil 

The Marshes
Nowhere Pub_edited.jpg

But you cannot bury a curse 

And the frigid sludge 

Oozes up through the pub carparks 

And the A-roads 

Fog still crawls across the landscape

And smothers it

Muffles it 

Makes a closed room of the outside

The dead acoustic of a world 


To a yard of frozen earth 

It haunts the empty garden centres 

And isolates the motorhomes 

Polyester flags 

Sag silently 

Blind in the thick white breath of 

Jilted ghosts 

Candle light wobbles on the walls 

Of a single occupancy room

As the TV chants stories of an ambiguous 

Ever advancing threat 

And men begin to sink 

Folklore warns of the marshes 

Men are still lost to the land 

Out beyond the cities  

And the train stations 

Beyond the passing of time 

And the limp of progress 

Ghosts are made of the living 

In flat-roof social clubs 

Portacabin scout huts  

And potholed lanes 

Through flat acres of 


And frosted glass skies 

There is no exit from this place 

No landmarks to aim at

Nor vantage points 

Or higher ground 

The land of the lost 

Of the hopeless, wandering 

Above petrified bodies still sinking in the silt 

Nowhere shop

This place is nameless  

Names are for places that you might want to find 

Or speak of 

This place 


East of Lincoln 

Where Greenteeth waits for tired souls

This place 

That quiets taverns in the south

With clumsy mention of its mere existence 

Still hums a guttural monotone 

from within the sunken endless cloud 

As England resolves just not to look, 

To stare straight ahead 

Nowhere Bog
Nowhere Caravan

Centuries of bone and breast plates 

Rusted long swords 

And foolish boys 

Drowning, sinking in the black like gently floating snow 

Or falling ash 

Are joined from above by plastic cutlery 

Porcelain soldiers 

And high-vis jackets 

Like glitter in the peat 

Poor sods 

Fixated on some unnamed evil 

They stare out into the nothingness 

At an imagined horizon

And not down at where they stand  

As the bog swallows their boots

And laps at their knees 

They stare out


Shouting anthems at a wall of grey 

As the duckweed creeps around their throats 

And their noses blow bubbles in the ink 


England ‘til I die 

And the bog will oblige 

Nowhere Pub_edited.jpg

The clocks have stopped in this place

And the chatter at the burger van is of something being wrong 

Deeply wrong 

Nostalgia spins the compasses 

Of those who might attempt to leave 

Who might imagine life beyond 

The liminal gloom of the marsh 

And so they trudge 

Just feet above Fenland tigers 

Clawing up at them

In slow motion 

In silence in the salt 

They plod 

Deaf to the whispers 

Of witches waiting in The Wash 

Nowhere Wetlands
Nowhere Retail_edited.jpg

They think of war 

And battlefields 

And seventies television 

Of justice and Kings

But in this place 

All men lose their crown 

Not through misplacement 

But in refusal to misplace it 

To walk without it 

See how

They sink under its weight

Joining the arrows 


And polystyrene chip trays  

In muddy tombs 

Lost in the undulating 

Layers of sediment 

Beneath the crops and forecourts 

Of Nowhere Land 

I write to you from the wetlands 

Amongst the yawning marshes and 

The deafness of the fog 

The truck-stops and new roundabouts  

I found my way here in grief 

And, reluctant yet resigned

Join the others 

Good men, mostly

Who all have their reasons 

There are many rivers that lead 

To The Wash. 

Nowhere Lane

Do not come for me 

I am lost 

Folklore warns of the marshes 

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