So here we are, eh?Pressed up against the railswaiting for the main feature to start,though, yes, it might already have begun.Hard to tell now, isn’t it?I mean the signal from the noise.Then …

I used to find my work interesting. It was about making things with computers and other complex machinery. It was specialised, unusual, technical – came out of research we did around the mill…

A short story I dreamed of Sarah last night, and now she’s sitting over there. That’s not a coincidence. If you think it is, you’ve been living the one layer of your life, the sur…

I can’t remember the last time I had a cold. I suppose it’s just that I’ve not been getting out to the places you normally pick them up. But I was at a wedding at the weekend and,…

They choose their victims carefully –soft targets. A lone woman, perhaps,with young children.They open with a jibe, dehumanising,then look around with wolfish grins,seeking the safe ground of their…

I was in the supermarket today, just passing the racks of newspapers by the tills. I don’t buy them any more, but have you noticed how the headlines leap out at you? What struck me was their tone. …

In what safe box shall we keep this precious secret? A question posed in a poem I wrote. It seeks to explore a problem that I suppose has haunted humanity through the centuries, but me only recentl…

Yarrow Reservoir August 2025 A gloomy day, a flat light, but blessedly cooler than of late. There’s been such a quake of heat this August and very little rain. The first thing we notice as we…

I don’t know what world she lived in,nor yet the language that she spoke.It was a kind of English nonsense,but pleasant, like a babbling brook. Don’t disturb him, dear, her husband said…

While I do spend a lot of time with my laptop, it’s mostly staring at a screen while trying to think of something to write. I have no social media presence, which means the world I see through my o…

Well, that was January. Now, February arrives, and snowdrops appear in garden centres. And I have fallen in love. Well… it’s an old flame rekindled. We’ve known each other in passing for years—the object of my affections flirting shamelessly while remaining unattainable behind a locked gate and a water-board “keep out” sign. Yes, it is the most beautiful of trees.

As we drive around my hometown, we see how winter is once again opening fresh potholes. Some are deep, dangerous to anyone on a bicycle or motorcycle. We motorists, conscious of our tyres and suspensions, weave around them as best we can or slow to a crawl, rumbling over the worst bits to avoid damage. There have been some attempts at patching them up, but year after year, things only seem to get worse.

How soon have the generations forgotten?The shock of past terrors fades,and with it the collective guilt,at a million ways to murder. The swagger is all that remains, now,and the seductive power.It thrills anew, promising to shatter,to break clean throughthe stagnation of these midnight years,and the long ebb-tide of immiseration. And there's the echo of history,

On this tempestuous daythe earth gathers up what we already know,and it does it to us all the more.Here, the ocean has always delivered rain,but now it rains much more.Black clouds, dense with anger,unleash a load on shaggy hills,still sponge soakedfrom all the tempests gone before. And the wind has always blown,

With reverence, shall I hold these things for you?Keep them bosom safe?me, this drab post mistress,grey mouse, untouchedbehind a wall of glass? I wonder, are they love's letter lost?Or packages of care,from a mother to her son?No matter; I shall bless each one. But oh, shall I wait foreverfor your return?Or shall they becomemementos, now?gloom gatherings of doubt,and the age-old question:Will you ever see me,as I truly am?

Across this endless ashen ocean,my heart longs for those lone island whispers,and a fledgling sign my love's tide reaches you.And that from this, my still barren shore,I shall read it in the stars,and in the soft auroral glow,night murmurings of my love's return.

White Coppice There's not a trace of snow on the hills today, and this only six days after our last outing when we were at times waist deep and needing spikes. Still, it's a bright day, though the morning was mostly wasted with a sluggish get-up. Late nights and Netflix, and Apple TV+ have much to answer for. So, a short drive up to White Coppice, today.

It was minus seven this morning, as we defrosted the car. There was a pinkish glow to the sky as the sun came up, with a forecast of clear. The side roads have been slick with ice since New Year, but the main road through the village is gritted. We're heading over to Rivington for a walk in the snow. It being a popular destination, I'm guessing the roads out that way are also gritted, and this indeed turns out to be the case.

The New Year comes on with prolonged and torrential rains. The defences, built to protect the village, after the Boxing Day floods of 2015, are lethargic in their response, and the village is flooded again. The fire brigade is called to pump out. Roads are closed and houses inundated. There's a young guy prowling with a camera, snapping distress. But he's a villager, not a journo.

My, they come around quick these days! Here we are again, about to break the seal on another new year. The old one wore out so quickly - they obviously don't make them like they used to do. As always, my thanks to all of you who drop by at the Rivendale Review, old friends and new, for reading and commenting on my blather.

Headlights shine like twin suns across the vast meadows and the stagnant, watery ditches of the moss. Even from half a mile away, and in daylight, I have to avert my eyes. Would you fancy meeting them down a narrow, pitch-black country lane? They seem emblematic for everything our peculiarly corrupted Zeitgeist has become. So long as I'm okay, the rest can suffer what they must.

I recently turned 64. This seems a very great age to me. Yet, under normal circumstances, I could still have three years to work, before retirement. Three more years of early get-ups, and long commutes! As it is, I managed to get out at sixty, courtesy of a works' pension, and the allure of some very seductive hobbies. Of these, writing remains foremost, but there's also walking, photography and various forms of artwork.

From way across the meadow I can seeonce more the cheery holly's gleam.My tree is heavy with berry, this year,and brightens the December grey.But some years, the farmer has stripped it bare,sells the sprigs for wreaths at Christmas fairs.I only want a modest cuttingand will search the tree for prettiest one,the one it seems to offer as a gift.