Any thoughts of sleeping on the night flight home from New York on 28th June 2008 were thwarted by the woman behind me playing computer games on my headrest. For a while I enviously watched the woman on my right who through sadness or exhaustion remained perfectly still, eyes closed, for the whole journey. To my left, my travel companion Chaucer Cameron was writing –

cool drop from blue through pins of cloud to concrete
where heat plays baseball between blocks
paint blisters burst from their burgundy coats.

I scanned my photos on the tiny screen of a Canon G5, they were all there: the landing, concrete, baseball, heat, peeling paint. 30,000 feet above sea level, with the lights dimmed, my passion for poetry film began.

In the meeting of words, and images, and sound, there is a formation that can intrinsically be described as a form of poetry itself. In this form of poetry every poetic device can be explored and utilised – rhythm, repetition, metaphor, and so on.