Bonheur

Un jour je marierai un ange

The clock hand moves like pulling on a chain,
Another slow night pouring down the drain.
I wake into a world that doesn't know,
The place your little shape should truly go.

The light is thin, the air is hard, climb here is steep,
It’s here, without you, on this hike, that I have to keep.

Keep my promise just to draw a breath,
And live this life set opposite your death.
Count the window panes, stay precise,
Here, now, this moment, has to suffice.

Tracing the dust upon the window glass,
A softer sermon in my midnight mass.

OR-eye-eye mahn uh BOR-eh 
The small hours where the spirit seeks its glory.
I search the dark for tiny embers lit,
The scorched, true reality of it.
This fractured heart now has no beat nor part,
To hold the pieces of you right from the very start.

Walk the floorboards, slow, bare,
So many, too many moments here we two share.
I find the memory, precious and precise
Of holding your small body, is has to suffice.

Mess of bottles at dawn,
The tiny, perfect promises newly born.
The kitchen is silent, the clatter,
The tiny, everyday things that truly matter.

I build the shaky scaffolds in my mind,
Watching you and two, seen, buzz buzz bee - bee kind.

Cornish moment, tiny in my arms,
No bells and no alarms.
Your shape against my chest, your warm, slow sigh,
Beneath the cold indifference of this newport sky.

Homely holden Hiiraeth,
This specific, lonely ache,
For the truth I couldn't fake
Or hold. The present is a shape,
I feel it where the shadows softly gape.
A devotion to the small, remembered room,
A little light surviving in the gloom.

OR-eye-eye mahn uh BOR-eh 
The small hours where the spirit seeks its glory.
I search the dark for tiny embers lit,
The dim dark, true reality of it.
This fractured heart still has to beat and part,
To hold the ghost of you right from the start.

Just waiting here for the dawn.
Just praying to be drawn.
Closer to the warmth of us,
Closer to the sleep.

Oriau Man y Bore

“Oxford Revisited” is a chamber-folk narrative told across eight hours of a 20-year reunion at New College, Oxford. It’s the sound of returning to the architecture of your youth and discovering the internal rooms you’ve locked or forgotten. Over fingerpicked guitar, warm cello, and soft glitch textures, the album follows a 40-year-old protagonist as he retraces the pathways of his first independence—old staircases, renovated bars, candlelit halls—meeting the ghosts of who he was.

Across the evening he reconnects with Anna, a woman whose life was transformed by a book he wrote in his twenties. Her gratitude destabilises him at first; he barely recognises the idealistic version of himself she quotes back. But as the night deepens—from laughter with first-year neighbours to the humbling sobriety of an alumni football match—he begins to warm to the idea that the artist he used to be isn’t gone, just quiet.

By midnight, standing on the Mound beneath the warm lamps and cool air, he accepts a truth he’s avoided: growing up didn’t erase the creative self—it only buried it under routine. Anna didn’t come to remind him of the past; she came to return him to himself.

This is an album about memory, drift, courage, and the dignity of beginning again. Not nostalgia—recognition.

Forty on the Mound

Quantum me