Each sudden gust of light explains itself as flames, but neither they, nor even bombs redoubled on the hills tonight can quite include me in their fear.

I read ' Treasure Island' for the first time at university. And I started to notice then how unresolved some things were. Later, I realised that Stevenson was interested in sequels, and I wondered whether he would have gone back to it had he lived longer.

Honor the miraculousness of the ordinary.

But I can't and don't ever want to write bell-yanking confetti-tossing hat-throwing poems.

Like a lot of people, for a long time I thought that the road to hell is paved with bad sequels.

Each sudden gust of light explains itself as flames, but neither they, nor even bombs redoubled on the hills tonight can quite include me in their fear.

Poems are a hotline to our hearts, and we forget this emotional power at our peril