I have stuff in the oven but it is half baked so I can only offer something which has been left to cool….for about fifteen years.


 I saw my children yesterday

For the first time

I felt something

Stirring fluttering

I almost missed it

Dismissed it

But then it came again

A little stronger

And I recognised the stirrings

Of loves small fists

Drumming on the

Closed shutter of

Of my heart

I looked again

And saw them

Seated at the table

Carelessly growing

I reached for the camera

To capture the moment

I first saw my children

And felt my heart beat.





Found Wanting

I have been distracted by short story writing (much too difficult) in my creative writing class, so have neglected the poetry thing. Feeling a bit guilty (habitual) so scampered down to the cellar yesterday to see what might be lying around down there. Came up with this. It could be vintage or it could be corked! Feel free to return it.


Found Wanting


You ask me what I want

And I go bounding after your question

Eye bright and tail held high


But I am back again

Returning it to you



Puzzled and amused

You throw again

Under hand


What do you fancy love

Que quere amor

In case the notion is a foreign one


Now it’s a serious quest

To find this ‘want’ of mine


A long buried treasure

In an unmarked grave


What do I want

You name it


I cannot squeeze

My outsize need

Into a slender slip of desire


I gulp down a small treat

From your outstretched hand

Then settle to grinding my favourite bone





Risky Roads

Yesterday I dispatched something from the freezer. Today’s gift is still warm. You can easily tear it with your teeth.


Roads that take you to the shore

Seem to narrow as they approach that outrageous infinity

They slow down, aware that something that does not observe the highway code is dangerously near

They start discarding side roads well away from the action

Flinging them off to right and left like children undressing on the run

Hopping out of one leg and then the other at the first whiff of salt or the ‘come come’ of the seagull

Deaf to any warning call that might stop their headlong drive into the dancing, dragging, deluge of primordial water

Now you don’t see any motorways in full flood

With fingerposts a mile high signalling ‘to the beach’

No screech of brakes as the four lane highway

Meets the four wind world of the deep.


Roads are careful things with proper boundaries

Built to carry life in units from here to there

And back again in safety

Roads that take you to the shore

have absolutely




Laying a Hedge

The Hawthorn and Hazel stand naked.

Sharp thorns barely touch across the wind whipped divide

Where the old man stoops at the raggedy edge of a frosted field

To study the raw material of his ancient craft

His blue breath steams in whistling bursts as he strokes the familiar shaft of his bone handled knife.

He pokes his withered hands into gauntlets, shaped by years of grip and graft, and nods to show that he is ready.

He pockets his pipe then grabs a tangle of thorny tongues,

And bends them back on themselves, slicing into the unyielding root.

He lays the groaning whiteness bare but spares the blackened skin.

He hammers in whittled staves and weaves the matted crown into a barbed and braided barricade.

He grunts as he wrestles rogue branches into his deadlock and pins them to the frame.

Moving on down the shiver thin line, he layers limp leaf mould onto the straining roots to bed them down.

At intervals, he steps back, and bends to cough up gobbets of mistletoe phlegm,

Then spits a single crimson berry onto the bonfire of severed boughs.

Trussed and bound his newly fettered foes play dead,

Knowing that, year on year, Spring will force her spume through their laced lattice

And pattern the edge of the old man’s grave with green.