Keere Street / Scare Hill

Clamour of cobble

rough river

bursting banks.

Each stone claims space

angle and push

rising proud.

Jumbled tumble

slippered in moss

polished with rain.

Stopped short

by crux of brick

we do not fall.

A view down Keere Street

Bull Lane - Paine’s Twitten

Flint tunnel

rip in time

narrow slip

between high walls

past gates

we can’t open

warped wood

blind locks


as we lose our breath

a keystone

yields to the touch.

A view down Paine's Twitten

St Swithun’s Lane - St Swithun’s Terrace

Swithun’s last words

rise up like mist

his final request:

no shrine, no walls

between my remains

and my parishioners

no barrier to the sweet damp air

to heaven’s rainfall

green on my grave.

For a century they walked close by -

blistered and poor

tired or praying

stopping a moment

among the trees

boots thick with loam -

then bricks went up

to honour his tomb.

Today the road shines dark

with summer rain

buildings keep rising

the layers thicken

for forty days

the skies are stone.

A view down St Swithuns Twitten

Green Lane

Shadowed underfoot

damp rising

you’ve pushed

what wants to grow

to the vertical.

Toadflax and bramble

crawl up doors

nose through brick

pear trees stretch fingertips

over walls.

A view down Green Lane

St Martins Lane

unbox the houses

tilt the roof

rich cream wall

peel back timber frame

orange squares

lift the pink siding

of the chocolate shop

slide out the slice

of tree



A view down St Martins

Watergate Lane

Wide mouth


open hand

empty bowl

we drink flowers

eat earth

gifts from stone.

A view down Watergate

St Andrew’s Lane

a garden is always a series of losses

a wall is safer

a wall is better than a war

a garden is a friend

a garden is the shape of a rectangle

a wall is just a wall

a wall is a screen

a garden is never finished

A view down St Andrews Lane

Station Street / St Mary’s Lane

often overlooked

predominantly of terraced housing

a room may have been this colour in the past

every accommodation for visitors

an atmospheric drinking den

independent coffee house

a mouse hole of a shop

not organised in any discernible fashion

new stables, shops and carriage repository

approved subject to drains being properly ventilated

during repair work a void was discovered

with this area being 91% white

the spin machine will be back in action

your sphere online

colour makes people happy

the salt to hit your tongue

eaten upside down to allow

a mouthful of this and a mouthful of that

nose to tail

a former Wesleyan chapel

is on the market

as well as a host of innovative workflow apps

acoustics, noise, vibration

dust and air quality

Craven A will not affect your throat

click here to view 65 crimes

while investigations and any necessary repairs

are carried out to fill the void

A view down Station Street

St Nicholas Lane

A tree grew against the wall

slow leaning

trunk thickening.

The wall began to yield

inch by inch

it bowed and bellied

the way stone shouldn’t.

The tree was felled

but left its shape

a negative


We give the wall space

as it teeters

swollen with secrets.

A view down St Nicholas Lane

Walwers Lane

The argument might have raged for years

since the flats were built around it

layering anger into foundations

making rooms for the pain.

Bystander, passer through -

this twitten is made for overhearing -

gaps in the wall

like open wounds.

A view down Walwers Lane

Church Twitten

the east wall is cobble

gilded with lichen

the west wall is flint

knapped jigsaw pieces

fig tree stretches

teardrop fruit

low door creaks

silvered wood

beech leaves rust

join windfall mulch

horse chestnut leans in

conkers split

fig tree creaks

green parasol

low door rusts

bramble ladder

the east wall is cobble

gilded with lichen

the west wall is flint

knapped jigsaw pieces

A view down Church Street

Broomans Lane

"It is not wet air, nor moist air, nor vapoury air; it is not vapour in any shape or form whatever. It is an immersion of the whole body in hot common air."

- Johann Ludwig Wilhelm Thudichum (1861), on the Victorian Turkish bath

A tinderbox of breath

a tender oven

blood rising under skin

throats red as roses.

You inhale

your neighbour’s voice

your sister’s sigh

your lover’s secret

the hot common air.

A view down Broomans Street