Fiona Mason


Fiona Mason is a writer, artist and researcher. She read Philosophy at Essex University and has worked as an editor, theatre producer, fundraiser and arts consultant.

Her writing and art are inspired by the journey and touch on themes of liminality, memory, identity and loss. Works-in-progress include a collection of landscape poetry, a collection of short stories on the theme of escape and a non-fiction work about a 1200mile journey by bicycle with a guitar. Fiona is Co-ordinating Editor of Goldfish 2015.

View as PDF: Fiona Mason - Poetry

Oaken Tales

(from The Memory of Trees)

Late summer you sat beneath my green boughs,

my fruit your currency:

a cupped, polished treasure,

that hoarded in my hollow trunk,

was your exchange for fellowship.


My great branches were galleon masts.

Small fingers reaching into deep ridges for grip,

you would scramble up to get a better view

and from the crow’s nest, hand-cupping sun blinded eyes,

would seek the far horizon across an ocean of wind-waved wheat.


Other boys would beg to come aboard:

to hoist-sail or heave-to, plank-walk or keelhaul.

Buccaneers and pirates, merchant-men or navy.

Each lad his own place and purpose,

self-determined and confirmed by consensus.


You didn’t know then that oaks like me

were felled for the ships

that caused mothers to weep,

dressed pretty girls too young in widows' black,

made fatherless boys,

robbed old men of sleep,

and made wheat-fields to weeds.


You didn’t know then that boys like you

grew to hunger-gnawed men

with rope-callused hands,

salt-scoured skin,

sea-blind eyes,

loss-bent minds

and fathom-dark hearts.

Butterfly Dreams 

In my preferred version of events, after you were gone,

birds sang the new day to life,

so I opened the window

to let in the endless blue sky

and let out what remained of you

that could still be free.

Then a butterfly that had emerged

before its time and was stretching new wings

on the trunk of the cherry tree took flight

and landing on your pillow said all was right.


In the real version of events, after you were gone,

she held you by the feet

and pulled you down the bed,

she rearranged you,

tried and failed to close your eyes,

pushed a pillow under your chin to hold your mouth shut,

pulled the duvet tight so that only your cold, spent face showed,

made me a cup of sweet tea, and

surprised at my shock asked, ‘Haven’t you been expecting it?’

And after half an hour left us there together,

to figure it all out, alone in that forever silence.

It was 6:30am.

Talking To You From My Hotel At Midnight

We speak.

Our connection


yet tenuous. My voice

thick with emotion. Yours


like moon on water

or a silverpoint lyric, drawing me

into your orbit,

pouring cool liquor

onto my parched, brittle words,

smoothing out the furrows,

unwinding the spring,

until I flow freely, as you do.

As the ink flows

from your Chinese brush.