One River (2023) is my third collection of poetry, and my first with publisher Puncher & Wattmann. This book is a series of haibun studies of the Hunter River and its tributaries. Haibun are a Japanese form of prose poetry punctuated by haiku. In this instance, I substituted the longer, but still brief, Korean sijo as lively sketches of the birds, trees, weather and waterways I encountered in my wandering. As I put it in the introduction to the collection—

…the sijo in their relative compression are analogous to a river rapids—or the quick-step that’s the banter of a brook—and on the other hand, the prose in its amplitude has more in common with the wider, calmer reaches of a stream.

The heart of this book are unique meditations on the river and its hinterland. In their whimsical complexity—and leaps of imagination—they are an immersive experience, inviting the reader to find a sense of flow in the limber movements of poems that follow water falling.

One of the joys of writing this collection was giving myself permission to write an introduction and an epilogue; an opportunity to expand in essay form upon the nature of my experiences on the river and how they translated into poetry. Here is an excerpt from Beginnings (the title of the introduction).

I also harboured a notion that walking with the river would align with a perennial feeling I have, that the process of imagining and writing poetry itself takes the form of a river, one which belongs to the geography of my interior.

What a pleasant surprise to discover a review of my first book of poems Broken Ground (UWAP - 2018) in the online journal Plumwood Mountain by Cassandra Atherton. It was posted in 2019 and I’ve not see it till now. It’s a searching and intelligent piece—as one might expect reading the reviewer’s publication history and academic standing—and I especially appreciate Cassandra’s remarks about the prose poem One Thing That Matters, which I intended to be the collection’s centre piece.

A still day high in the hills

Not far from its source, Jerusalem Creek

is a dashing flow down a stepped rock chute. To the west,

beyond the limpid water's play, a lyre-bird

turns a phrase, then mid-song is silent. In the quiet he leaves

behind, I’m struck by a loneliness so pronounced,

I could cry out for more of his blithe mimicry. And yet,

the last fragment of his song—like liquid through the air—

lingers. How acute this avian student of sound.


On a ledge above the creek, and low-down by my feet,

a wire-thin blade of grass. At its tip, suspended,

a drop of this morning's sudden rain. And now—awakened

to the infinitesimal—I see that each needle of the sapling she-oak

beside me sparkles, bears a tiny lens and bends the light.

If I could hold a note that's true, I'd sing

for this Christmas chorus of lights. Now that it's time to move on,

I look up a great tallowwood—a rough-barked column

headlong for the company of blue—a lift, it carries me there too.