top of page

Dominic Weston



the poet

Dominic Weston makes wildlife programmes for television, runs over the Mendip hills, and writes poetry. His work has appeared in numerous print and online magazines, journals and anthologies, including Ink, Sweat & Tears and Green Ink Poetry. Once, he even slipped off the page into poetry film. Dominic's work veers into the natural world – often with a healthy undercurrent of darkness. Adopted as a baby, and having lost both parents to prolonged illness in recent years, Dominic treasures most the poems he writes about his family. 

the poems


00:00 / 01:35

                     Scissoring volleys snip across the dripping field

                     call and counter-call sewing lines of reassurance

                     between fleets of long-tailed tits as they slip

                     westwards from the cider orchard through the

                     beeches to infiltrate a long thorn hedge

                     Half the front leg of a roe deer is sheathed in

                     mud-washed fur, a finger of matt bone 

                     protruding at one end, a black flinty hoof at the 

                     other – rejected by the nose of a curious hound

                     articulated by the shunt of a cautious boot

                     Ghost memories of deer appear along the 

                     Fosseway in the dun flanks of fallen field stone

                     greenish with algae

                     half-light fashioning their features

                     Pale flashes on the path, peroxide husks

                     look like Bambi tails

                     not the fallen maize wraps 

                     from a squirrel’s overhanging store 


                     Strikingly rigid and damp-dense 

                     Millie claps my knee backs with an over-long branch

                     Labrador trots her pride in the mimic trophy – 

                     her own piece of Jane Doe

                     Beneath our feet limestone knucklebones push up 

                     through the blackspots of let down sycamore palms 

                     yellowing gloves smooth the naked crevices

                     November is the time when the ground is made.

The Daedalus I Knew

Inspired by the bronze statue

Daedalus Equipping Icarus

by Francis Derwent Wood

00:00 / 01:28

                        The father of Icarus is on his knees,

                        left hand deftly lacing a leather cuff 

                        around his son’s bicep, while the right carries

                        the weight of the wings

                        It was not my father but my mother

                        who knelt before her own boy wonder

                        to tie the laces on my new school shoes and

                        launch me into the world

                        Daedalus’ rapt attention to his son 

                        as unimaginable to me as flight itself,

                        a pantomime played out on a mythical isle,

                        nothing I could know

                        My mother sprang my father from the

                        loveless island his parents confined him to

                        determined that her own children would never

                        see its brittle shores

                        My father’s skills earned the salary that

                        paid for tan sandals in the summer and

                        black lace-ups in winter, that put food on

                        the table year round

                        So no, he never did kneel before me

                        to tie my laces or straighten my wings,

                        but he lent me his place in my mother’s heart

                        and that selfless act     let me fly

And The Third Wish

00:00 / 02:41

                     It would be an unseasonably warm afternoon

                     when I would turn myself inside out

                     start to roll the skin back from my crown

                     unrooted hair flopping down onto my chest

                     the skin slinking over shoulders to the ground

                     An unexpected easterly wind would rise

                     making it a very good day for laundry

                     so into the tub with it, and half a box of soda

                     to scrub, scrub, scrub with the old bristle brush

                     and then three times through the mangle

                     The hottest part of the day would see me 

                     sitting in the shade on that stool from St David’s

                     with its three clawing rhododendron legs 

                     me thinking about nothing in particular

                     until my freed skin flapped bone dry in the wind

                     Once the steam from pressing had dissipated

                     I’d take out my reglazed glasses and look

                     for the first time into every crevice and wrinkle 

                     survey the landscape supported by my fingers

                     and audit my own hide for scars

                     Out of the long-crushed grey shoebox 

                     I’d lift the gold leaf embosser I’d liberated 

                     from Reading Grammar’s library stores 

                     retired from inscribing Dewey’s digits

                     on leather spines in favour of cold hard print

                     Plugged in the mains and finally hot to its tip

                     I’d parsimoniously press through foiled tape

                     to fill in the full extent of every scar I’d found

                     with a thin shield of gold, soon gone cold

                       the chink in my cheek where it kissed

                       the steel-lined typewriter case in the hall

                       the dent in my forehead where it struck

                       the brake lever of my Raleigh Tomahawk

                       the grave accent over my right eyebrow

                       inscribed by an open can of baked beans

                     Then my hands, oh my hands!

                     my pride, my strength, my means

                     the scenes of countless crimes and remedies

                     so many nicks, so many cuts, so many gouges

                     painstakingly gilded into delicate koi scale gloves

                     At the end of this burnished afternoon

                     I’d slowly pack my tools away for the last time

                     then burn my clothes in that rusting rubbish bin

                     carefully step back into my newly sequinned skin

                     and shimmer my way to Gomorrah.

Publishing credits

November: exclusive first publication by iamb

The Daedalus I Knew: The Language of Salt (Fragmented Voices)

And The Third Wish: Gallus supplement of Poetry Scotland

  (Issue 101)


S h a r e

bottom of page