BAFTA winning writer with expertise in writing for animation, comedy and children. One half of the creative duo The Brothers McLeod. Credits include Hey Duggee, Clangers, Octonauts. Show in development with CBBC.
In 2013 Myles was one of 27 writers that made it through to the BBC Writersroom script room. His half-hour live action drama for children was selected from 2800 submissions.
Writer of a series of poems for the Royal Shakespeare Company.
Now, I must rest on dark matters. List to me
That my words may mourn and tell like church tolls.
It may seem a simple game to reflect
On the source of ideas and thoughts,
On feverish novelties and notions.
For ’tis light to think on inspiration
When born from birth, love, dreams, even anger.
But there is another author, more feared.
Some say our round life flies before our eyes
In the last moments before the curtain.
Even if this be false, then we that remain
Know something akin to it, remembering
All our encounters with our passing friend,
From our first, cautious acquaintances,
To our many revelries, romps and embraces.
And we remember, too well, our final
Communion, wishing one more meeting,
Wishing one more encirclement of arms.
But all this, in vain.
These endings are like bellows to a flame,
The candle burns high, but the wax melts not.
We weak vessels that remain are as figures
Tricked by mist, which knowing not our bearings
Stand still, staring into naught, like stark skulls.
Only when the sun has painted the dial
With some few circles, do we sense the atom
Of intent, cradled within.
Perhaps it will be some few words, a poem,
A portrait, a lament or a worked stone.
When faced with all-ending, we must defy
And make memorial and monument.
Are these ideas the most sacred of all,
Hewn as they are in life’s failing fires?
Sacred or not so, they must be humble.
We cannot be like magi, conjuring stars
To convert the fixed constellations,
That we might preserve in their new shapes
Some memory, some thread, of life now lost.
We must settle for a few inky shreds,
For the dauby dabs of slickened brushes,
For the meagre marks that our bodies make
To commemorate those who have marked us.
One day we too will cross this Rubicon
And face what? Something? Or oblivion?
Yea. There are some destinies we cannot mend
And a play is not a play without an end.
Octonauts - Remipedes by Myles McLeod