The Inky Pilgrim
Issue 4
December 2025
Issue 4
December 2025
Dear friends,
Welcome to The Inky Pilgrim. Drop me a line if you'd like to receive further issues.
Two short bits of news followed by two new poems.
One Hundred Poems For All Seasons
"it's rarely a collection grips me so"
Jeff Cloves, co-founder Riff Raff Poets
The first bit of news is that I’m down to my last two dozen copies of the book. So, if you’d like to get yer mitts and eyes on 35-years of writing and performing condensed into 100 poems upon 144 pages, follow this link:
https://www.pigandink.com/one-hundred-poems.html
The Inky Pilgrim in 2026
I’m going to be publishing The Inky Pilgrim on a weekly basis throughout 2026. It’ll either include a brand new poem or a golden oldie, with short and suitable poetic reflections. Usually mailed out Saturday mornings.
If you’d like me to bung a copy into your inbox, then either reply to this email, or email [email protected]
If you’d prefer to receive it via WhatsApp:
I hope this finds you well.
Love to you and all that you love,
Creation Story
for Axel
after a good, long
almost eternal snooze
God finally woke
feeling delightfully refreshed
shall I draw back the curtains?
asked Archangel Gabriel
yes, please, Gabs
replied God
so Gabriel drew back the curtains
but the view that greeted them
was null and
the view was void
what would you like to see?
asked the angel
and God closed their eyes for a while
picturing the most magnificent sight they could conjure
a rainbow
replied God
and there was light
and water
and a rainbow shone through the darkness
arching and aching with beauty
and God saw that it was good
are you ready for some breakfast now?
asked the angel
God mused inwardly for a while
licking their sacred lips
and rolling their holy tongue
I think I’d like a mango, please, Gabs
said God
and there was earth
and air
and bees
and worms
and seeds
and an exquisite garden
blooming with innocence and abundance
and in the middle of the garden
there stood a mango tree
beaming with sun-infused fruit
oh my word, Gabs
said God
this tastes even better
than I imagined
and would you like to explore
what you have just created?
asked the angel
and God wracked their brain
and suddenly
out of nothing and nowhere
there appeared a bicycle
good God! God declared
how on earth will that thing
stay upright with my weight
upon it?
Gabriel smiled
and helped God get their leg over the cross bar
and briefly explained the function
of the pedals
and the handlebars
and the bell
and so
ripe, half-eaten mango in hand
God set off
at first wobbling this way and that
but soon enough
they got the hang of it
and found their heavenly flow
and before long God was
shrieking and howling and singing out loud
with mango-dribbling-rainbow-riding-bell-ringing-free-wheeling
sacramental delight
oh my, Gabs
shouted God
this is sooooooo good
so damn good
it’d be a shame not to share it
and the angel
simply smiled again
and knelt down
upon the hallowed ground
and from its depths scooped up a wet lump
of sticky and expectant
clay
https://www.pigandink.com/creation-story.html
All poets must die (Sunshine Time mix)
In loving memory of Michael Walton
aka The Bard of Beer
“SUNSHINE TIME in the gold mine
Of the Heart keeps you apart
From the cold clime & the grime.”
Michael Walton
There used to be a tunnelled path through the old poet’s wild garden
which I always felt free to use
and hanging within a bush at the top of the path
there was a dragon-embossed gong
which I’d faithfully strike
three times
so that the sprites of the place knew that I was coming down
and
later
three strikes more
to inform them I had safely returned
and then a little further down from the gong
tied to the perpendicular branches of one of the conifers
were six or seven knotted old sea-ropes
threaded through sea-forged hagstone holes
dangling like the spines and skulls of once-hallowed trolls
You could barely see the walls and windows or even the roof of his house
so shockingly and impressively overgrown his property and home
There was just a well-trod path to a humble garage door
I often wondered where he slept
and how he dwelt inside that place and time
Oh, there was more than a touch of liminality
and perhaps even insanity
to his shaggy kingdom
of joy and woe and brambles
woven so freely and so fine
The first time I ever met him
was half way along the path one night
(I was going up – he was coming down)
I almost jumped out of my skin with both fright and delight
Suddenly before me this bright tiny man not quite of this world
bushy white wizard-king-beard
and either side of his crown unfurled
two shocks of white unruly hair
and as he passed by
a falsetto voice
fluttered and trilled and disturbed and charmed me
and then he was gone
down to the village
and his favoured place in his favoured pub
perched next to the pebbled beach of the harbour
I felt like I’d just skirted a whirlpool to some fae-angelic-realm
that most of us no longer remember
or have forgotten how to see
Eventually
he died
as all poets must
and his home was purchased
and the land was cleared
and the path was diverted around the sensible right angles of
the property’s legal bounds
For a year I mourned
the closing of that portal
But here I am today
with the new owner
inside the gutted house
handing over cash for the old copper boiler
and there in one of the bare rooms
several stacks of plastic-wrapped books
of Michael’s esoteric verse and prose
I ask if I can take a couple
– “SUNSHINE TIME” embossed in gold upon their
flower-and-bird-and-butterfly-patterned covers
and as I hold the books close to my chest
time and space warp around the gravity of their pages
life and art and death and mystery and tragedy and beauty and
oh how special and how vulnerable this human life of ours
including mine
including his
including yours
each of us a fleeting poem
trembling briefly upon the surface of a sun-lit stream
as it follows its ancient calling down
to the wide open mouth of the hagstone sea
https://www.pigandink.com/all-poets-must-die.html
