Glen Coe

Heat me in the munro 
Climb to the top of my grief 
And look down 
In the glen I will dismantle 
My good friends 
In the burn I will wash 
Four-wheel drives 
My enemies will be destroyed 
By self-propelled news 
The days of rumours will stretch 
And double back from the horizon 
For no sound reason 
And we will hear God because of the hills. 

Glen Coe

You will be able to laugh 
In the blood of a stoplight 
You will be able to sleep 
Amid the egg shells of air accidents 
You will be able to climb 
The numbered shelves of heaven 
With the rest of them, 
Tracing the trajectory of your ball 
On a monitor— 
When you hiccup 
There will be tiny bubbles. 


My poetry has been published around the traps, in places like TurbineTroutBroadsheetPastureSnorkel and Enamel. My collection of short stories, A Man Melting, won the 2011 Commonwealth Writers Prize Best First Book award and I write a fortnightly column for the Dominion Post about my double life as a writer and public servant.