Oliver Murray

Our priest exulted, “How wonderful His ways,” then climbed his pulpit’s Calvary. The tide, lit by the after-dawn had brimmed the bay’s calm space, reflecting light on the roof inside. What boy, by a choir-loft window, could resist turning to look? A seal swam round a trawler . . . . Continue Reading »

O sun, old alchemist, you’ve set us wrong. Heat grips the land; the ditch-cut where the stand of alders sipped is dry. Your brassy gong has summoned dust from Africa and dancing decks have sprung beyond the town so nights bring shadows through the fields to trysts in lands. Kitchens are like . . . . Continue Reading »