About Roselle Angwin:

Poet, author and painter Roselle Angwin is the director of the Fire in the Head creative and reflective writing programme. Her work hinges on inner and outer geographies: the connections between self and self, self and other, self and place, and creativity and wellbeing. She has been described as ‘a poet of the bright moment... whose own source of creative inspiration is her native Westcountry, the Scottish islands, and a highly individual blend of Celtic mythology, psychology, shamanic and Buddhist thinking’. She is a passionate champion of wild places and the environment, and has led vision quest work on Dartmoor. Roselle is internationally known as a creative workshop facilitator. She’s run courses at Oxford, in Spain, France and Switzerland; annually on the Isle of Iona; for Dartmoor National Park and the Arvon Foundation, among many others. She was poet-in-residence at Sherborne Boys School in 2004/5, and at Hestercombe Gardens in Somerset as part of a Year of the Artist initiative with an environmental public art group, Genius Loci in 2000/1. With GL she also has poetry embedded in sculpted ‘cats’ eyes’ in the Cotswold Water Park cycle trail. Alongside Mimi Khalvati, Hugo Williams, Paul Matthews and Andie Lewenstein she is again tutor at Poetry Otherwise at Emerson College in August 2008.

Quelle: poetry p f

Like Tomorrow

Sometimes in the night I think I hear your footsteps, see you stretch a hand to lead me into your country, your mind which is incandescent with lights like Christmas candles, or still like a deep pool inhabited by golden carp, thoughts which fan the water as delicately as fins, barely rippling; or flick in a shower of neon across to the other shore, leaving me gasping for breath.

Sometimes you arrive like a flamenco dancer; sometimes a small wind swimming through leaves, and as I turn you’ve already left, and only the trees swaying to show your passage.

Sometimes you are an incantation on the lips of someone else

a vowel not quite uttered

a syllable just caught

a faraway tune.

Sometimes you are a hawk hanging on the wind.

I like it best when I turn from the kitchen where sunlight is stroking the tiles and walk out into the summer morning, grass still wet and the garden shaking off night, and you’re there in the extravagance of hibiscus, or under the lime tree; or waiting on the doorstep in the basket of bursting figs, bloom still untouched, like tomorrow.

in collection Looking for Icarus, 2005, bluechrome,
ISBN 1-904781-74-8