Richard Westcott's poetry

This is a time of sudden growth, and nothing seems to grow faster than brambles. I'm reminded of that children's game, when the challenge is for the approachers to see how close they can get to touching you in the few moments you're looking away, those long arms extending just far enough before their weight tips them towards the ground, to start all over again... And I think how quickly the post-apocalyptic world would be covered by looping hoops emerging from wood and hedge, from each and every edge, reaching ever further, even venturing into water, deterred by nothing much... Perhaps this was the original world, after or at least outside Eden - a landscape criss-crossed by arching brambles. You've got to have a certain admiration for the bramble, so determined it is. And well-equipped - what with that ability to progress in prostrate, clambering or flying mode, all those arms and weapons - hidden prickles on leaves, thorns on stems - the huge number of varie

Comings and Goings I’ve been thinking about these a bit recently, especially the latter – maybe because my newly published pamphlet* has been much in my mind, with my efforts to publicise it. Actually, I’ve met with some wonderfully supportive reactions, so ‘efforts’ gives the wrong impression.   But certainly a lot of time has been happily taken up by making lists, arranging a launch** and readings, contacting old friends and telling everyone I can think of, about it. So getting down to writing new stuff becomes that little bit harder.   Or there’s more of an excuse… Well, to come to the point, as the poems are about suicide, they focus on Goings.   I wrote this poem some time ago. Bradwell, looking east out over the North Sea, is a place of arrivals and departures, to be sure.   For over two thousand years it’s been exposed to invaders and defenders. All sorts of people, ranging from the predatory to the missionary, have come and gone; some have changed r

Last time I was talking about how much I've learnt in the business of putting a book together, even a very slim one. It's a bit like packing to go away - there isn't enough room for everything you wanted to include.  So some stuff just doesn't make it. A shame really, to discard poems you spent a lot of time on and got fond of.  But such is life. So here's one that got away. Actually, it got away in another sense. In a sequence looking at and thinking about suicide, this was one of the very few that describes a non-suicide - a suicide that almost was, but wasn't.   It's also special in that it's a description of a genuine event.  Of course, in trying to imagine certain aspects, I'm making it up, but the main story's completely true. A further reason - spoiler alert - for my sadness at its getting-away is that the hero, the saviour, is a dog.  Had it not been for her dog...  high time to give you the poem. Here we go then Here w