Under the Hazel Tree

There is a hazel at the end of the garden. It was here before the house had my name on the deeds, and it will outlast the arrangement. Most of what's on this site was thought up standing under it with a cup of tea going cold.

This is a personal site, in the older sense: no newsletter funnel, no course, nothing to sell. Poems on one shelf, stories on another, and a journal for the offcuts — the notes, the half-thoughts, the things that aren't finished and may never be.

Why the hazel

In the old stories, nine hazels leaned over the well at the source of the Boyne, and dropped their nuts into the water, and a salmon ate them and took on all the knowledge in the world. Whoever ate the salmon would have it in turn. In the event it went to a boy who burned his thumb on the cooking and put it in his mouth without thinking — which is, in my experience, exactly how knowledge arrives.

Hazel is also the wood you cut for a walking stick, for a fence, for a diviner's rod. It coppices: cut it back hard and it comes again from the stool, better than before. That seemed like a reasonable thing to name a writing site after.

What's here

• Poems — short pieces, mostly about light, water and weather.
• Stories — longer prose, memory-shaped.
• Journal — working notes, reading, what's flowering.

Everything is written by one person and posted when it's ready, which is not a schedule. If you'd like it to come to you, there's an RSS feed. If you'd rather be surprised, presswander and the site will pick something for you.

Getting in touch

Corrections, arguments about hurling, and the names of things I've got wrong are all welcome. Replace this paragraph with your own address when you make the site your own.