About Will

Will Gould is an artist gardener. He also works as a creative practitioner, combining science and conservation with the arts. He has gardened at St John's Jerusalem for more than a decade.

Island darkness

Cinnamon and cinnabar and giant marzipan

Melting mango fibered flesh oozing

syrup above scatterings of scuttling sail chinned dinosaurs.

Swarming stripes of black and yellow

ripple on frangipani – a name I don’t remember

except for tropical Plumeria smells of heat and rich sun on pale skin.

The streamlined horns and bulbs of red escape,

then eat their elegant umbrellas.

Hornet warnings flash for the birds

and coqui frogs, in the night, chirping beyond their bounds.

A cacophony of pings and sings

summoning shooting stars from the Pleiades

to scratch the darkness

To scratch the reflection in mosquito waters

The swirls of stars and galaxies in paddles wake

Chunks of light tumble from my hand

as drip trails fish follow shooting in the shallows

like a splash of silent light

Quiet in the mangrove night



Small farmer’s lament

I miss your mess of grey white hair

Your tufted stretch of leather,

over taught warm muscle.

I miss the deep tearing mouthfuls of grass

Chewing like a typewriter cartridge on elastic strings of slobber

Your super tongue, feeling, like a handful of fingers.


You were running for fun

Drumming the soil with half ton hooves

with high kick flicks and snorts.

We saw you as dusk raised a magic moon

and mist lost your numbers in a slow drift swoon.


I miss your eyes, your dark crystal skies

Etched with shadows and lined with long lashes

To keep off the splashes

of shit, sometimes smeared by your friends

A green grey stain, waiting for the rain to restore

Your soft cheeks.

Your black ears cocked and swept

Like folded felt shells

Seaching for warnings,

fore and aft.

When all else is peace

Quiet great masses slumped together

Stretched sacks of stomach, digesting,

And steaming at dawn


A mist that fails to lift

The ground without horizon

Just a banana yellow strewn floor

and leaves falling

occasionally overtaken by condensed drips of daylight

The damping down of a day done

before it has begun,

cut through by light of the approaching night

Fly Girl

If you were a trout fly, I would tie you tight

I’m treble hooked in feathered flight

I love the way that water and your hair ignite

Exploding curls in ever expanding delight

Like ripples from a water kiss

Tempting rainbows from the abyss


Above, you are my kestrel kite

my shooting star at night

The sunlight on my skin

and  the warmth within

my love.


Pink foil outlasts the crumpled Chrysanthemums

On the corner of a red brick bridge

Fading like printed photos in the sun

Garage flowers, in crunchy cellophane

Blooming by the roadside

Shrunken balloons, scattered and slumped

Like the shell of a burnt out taxi

A box without sides

Leaking smoked memories

Like rainbows of oil


A periodic table of dark varnished wood

Holds racks of ridged brown bottles

Releasing time streams from cupboards of fume

and florets of sweeping cilia.

From the Islets of Langherhans

Flowing down the duodenum

to a Golgi apparatus apportioning constants

from Planck to Avogadro


Nucleic acid.



begins like Stevensons rocket

with bubbling tanks and valent ionics

The Medulla oblongata and Halogens

bonding noble gases to hydrogens

Bunsen burners leaking squeaky pops

dusting chalkboards and glassware

A relative atomic mess

on a periodic table top.




Like a stone ballerina,

Stands the lightness of centuries

With roots in ranges and valleys

draining an ocean of sanguine leaves

Sieving time with paper fingers

in submission to winds

A companion, holding firm on rigid rock

A restless monument in the maelstrom

A simple great mass

Exuding existence


The full moon over Blackheath dusk

is a hole

Cut through to daylight

Reflecting tweed and steam and an old mans ears

on the summit of my young London years.

A perfect waiting window above the suburbs

Following but not moving

Watching without eyes

In Grandma’s comet catching skies

A monastic bell clear through thick mountain mist

Hillsides in layers emerging

A whale rears through the surf surge sunset

Aeroplanes and cranes crowding veiled light in the siren strewn city.

When bare trees mark horizons

Will I remember sky smeared peach wheat fields?

Disassemble (breakdown)

Under wet rain of plane

Darkness is not coming

Just dusk in a long slow loop

Bird song broken to notes

Between rain drops, on every surface around me

one by one, note by note

falling slowly in to the darkness

Where sky becomes day and the ground night


The definition of new leaves

Swarm a bright light sky of night

To gather the ground up

and darkness down