Into the Pit


COMING SOON! The third Adam Pennycome novel:

It is winter and fierce storms are lashing the Cornish coast. With his mother in her last days, DC Fred Newley is tasked with investigating a body found in a mineshaft. Soon it is clear that the victim is a suspect that his cousin, DS Adam Pennycome, has been hunting for five years. Together they begin a complex investigation where everyone has a motive for murder, but evidence is in short supply. Who did dump Frank Fogarty’s body? Why is it wrapped in an old school carpet? And what was Frank Fogarty even doing in Cornwall? As they search for answers to these and many other questions, Adam and Fred have to learn to negotiate their working relationship while at the same time going through their own journeys of loss and grief. But when the answers are eventually found, the question remains: is murder ever justified when justice is denied?

The river lost its voice

Two weeks ago the river lost its voice –
The voice of granite hills we knew so well –
And just the gentlest stream flowed down the pass
Beside the quiet weir. Meanwhile snow fell

Across the Atacama desert; ice
Gave way and buried thousands in Nepal;
Rains failed across a thirsty South Sudan.
And I thought how we have amplified the fall’s

Most bitter curse and made ourselves as gods,
Not stewards of this scarred and harrowed earth.
At least the Tavy has resumed its flow –
For now – and we have overcome our dearth,

But what of those for whom the hard, dry land
Yields only thorns, unable to withstand
Catastrophes beyond the wisest plan
Which witness to the fallenness of man?

Ordinary Time

Ordinary time is the longest of the church seasons from Epiphany to Lent, and from Pentecost to Advent. It is not marked by many major festivals, which is, why, perhaps not many poems are written about it.

The prayed for rain came at last, a day
of softening showers and then the scudding clouds
Which start to wrestle with the stubborn sun,
And small sour apples shrunken by the drought

Fall hard amid the tough, tenacious docks
While early Autumn leaves are swept towards
The stagnant, weedy pond. We check the app,
Decide to head on out to Richmond Walk

Where city, coast and countryside divide;
To our left the Royal William Yard masks
The tenements and tower blocks behind,
Beyond, the squat Breakwater holds fast

Against the overwhelming, cresting waves
And forms a hard horizon all the way
From Devil’s Point to Mount Edgcumbe’s great
Estate now drenched with drizzle, chill and grey,

Cascading down the densely wooded slopes
Now basking in a warm alluring light,
And as we shelter at Mount Wise I think
How this weather mirrors ordinary time

Where over many months such clarity
Of sight seems at times by questions drowned
And I must work to keep the vision sharp
When fruit falls hard on dry unyielding ground.

Devonport 30 Aug 26

Drought

Light drizzle falls upon the yellow grass
And settles on the brittle withered leaf
Like tears of grief upon a corpse – the cause
Of death unheeded warnings, disbelief,

As if the scientist’s a raving fool
And we can act as gods to burn, pollute
And drill at will. Soon the precious pall
Of slate-grey cloud will burn away and soot

From far-off fires disperse across the earth.
I contemplate Saint Peter’s ancient words
About the conflagration of the world
And wonder if his warning will be heard.
30 Jul 26

Faith

A picture from Cirencester where the conference was held:

It grows deep underground, yet is not blind,
That seeking, searching for one constant Source
Which feeds and nurtures strong, resilient roots
Withstanding whatever windswept force,

Beyond our own enduring, blows our way.
And it does not grow alone. With fragile threads
It makes connections through some unseen web
And forms one body with a single Head.

Yet in these strange tumultuous times where gods
Are made and crafted by our own design,
I am reminded of some prophet’s tale
About a verdant but rebellious vine

And wonder how our fragile threads will stretch
Or if the fruit will set our teeth on edge.

Exeter Diocesan Conference 16 Jun 26

Stokesay Castle

It’s easy to romanticise the past
And idolise some English idyll where
We clean forget the alleys full of filth
Or country hovels, flea-infested, bare

Or hungry months in which our fathers starved
And sickness stalked the crowded street. And yet
To sweep away all that the years have left
Untouched is also really to forget –

We need these quiet, secluded spots
Which tell in ancient stone and weathered oak,
Not of some sweet sanitised golden age
But of the rise and fall of moneyed folk,

Who prospered briefly, built up title, rank
And power then through the centuries declined
To leave behind this crumbling, dark outline
Which stands today to educate, remind.

And thus we stand beneath the great hall’s beams
Still slightly charred by a long-extinguished blaze
And watch the iridescent swallows flit
Through window-frames which once held precious glaze,

But as we marvel at their speed, their poise,
Their grace we cannot help reflect how one day
The autumn breeze will bear them all away
And just this time-worn ruin will remain.

May 26

Revelation

She looks and yet no longer sees – her eyes
Which sparked upon her husband’s touch (or flashed
With anger when he came home drunk) now sit
As muddy, lifeless pools which do not catch

The sunshine steaming through the frosted pane
Or stir upon the gentle springtime breeze,
And though they used to shimmer moistly at
My words, they gaze unfixed in senseless ease.

Yet, when I start to play her favourite hymn,
For one brief holy moment breaks forth light
And something’s seen beyond mere human sight.
4 May 26

The interval

A poem for Holy Saturday

The largo’s final chord has softly died
Away and now we wait the thrilling change
To glorious major key when every theme
Of desolation, loss and grief, explained

In starkly haunting counterpoint, at last
Find full and total resolution. Yet
In this brief space such poignant melodies
Still echo deep and we must not forget

When standing to applaud our Maestro’s work
How hope is forged so often through despair
Or how so many only know those slow,
Dark notes that yield no consolation, where

The hints of coming joy cannot be heard
And heavy silence often is preferred.

4 Apr 26

Cider making

The darkening pip told us that the crop
Was ripe and so against the dwindling day
We gathered up the fallen, the bruised, the
Misshapen, and chopped and peeled and cut away

Where worm and moth had wound their manky trail,
Before, with every sinew stretched, we pressed,
And crushed and pulped, until the channel ran
Full of the precious juice whose earthy taste

We sealed and captured in our demijohns,
Then waited, while the unselected browned
Upon the sodden earth, as winter’s rain
Set in and beat incessantly the ground,

Reducing us to watchers of this slow
Decay. But now the saddening months have passed –
Outside, the brambles, nettle, elder push
Through the fermented remains of those outcast

While gladdened by the lengthening light, we look
To Easter and the breaking of the seal,
And wonder what delight will be revealed.

1 Mar 26

The Parliament

The magpies have convened a parliament
And no-one’s keeping order. Item one,
The crows: (loud jeers and cackles at this point) –
This seasons’ skirmishes have just begun,

Great vigilance required at ALL TIMES,
They are and always shall be mortal foes,
They eat our kids and steal our food; no peace
Can be agreed, whatever they propose.

Next item, nests: We all want better pads
But nicking sticks (or nestmates)’s not allowed.
Shiny objects on the other hand …
(Uproar erupts among the squabbling crowd.)

Third item, twitchers: Mostly harmless, they’re
Not interested in you, some foreign bird
Is all they want to see. So distract them
Do something odd (yes, Derek, that’s not hard

for you.) Fourth item, the long-range forecast, warm
And warmer still, despite the driving rain.
Do what it takes to feed your starving brood,
Be smart, be wise, not pigeon/human-brained.

(Uneasy laughter ripples gently through
The jostling throng until – what’s that? A jay!
And thus the moot concludes with raucous squawks
While Derek goes his own peculiar way.)

February 26