Works

Twelve ways of looking. Begin where you like — the order is only a suggestion.

A lone standing stone in fog on open moorland, the heath dissolving to pale silver around it.

Lost in the Fog

Wait with me

Paths diverging on the heath, the ground opening away into mist.

Mysteries of the Heath

I take the measure of the city, and turn away.

A long London Underground platform, a few passengers strung out along the wait.

Our Brief Hour

Held still, and moving the whole time.

Four cormorants on a derelict wooden mooring cluster in flat, fog-bound water; river and horizon dissolved to silver, the birds and their reflection the only dark.

And when I crumble who will remember

The encounter seemed as opaque as the weather.

A small clapboard house on Silver Lake Street in dawn fog, a hand-painted sign under the eaves — THIS IS THE STATE OF THE UNION — its arrow pointing back at the house.

This Is the State of the Union

It isn't me that's lost it. It's them.

Five lidless casket shells in unstained wood recede along low trestles, each banded with embossed moulding; a roller conveyor enters at lower left, the tall windows behind blown white with daylight.

People Don't Die in the Summertime

Craftsmanship for the end of one's days.