Friday, 22 September 2017


The Mother and Daughter

Ladies, ladies, ladies,
So much love
So much compassion
Spilling over from your happy lives
Into the lives of others, the people you meet
Every generous thing
Over-spilling
Abundantly flowing
Every small piece of happiness gathered and collected into a
Red heart shaped napkin
And popped into a lady-like handbag
Two beauties
Full of life
Givers.

Thursday, 21 September 2017



Dream Poem 8 - The Hero

High, high on the stairs
Top floor
Looking down onto the world of men
The hero has to go down into the world of people
To complete a task
Running, weaving round market traders and shoppers
He’s looking for something
He’s not blaming anyone
But he knows with little knowledge – this is a set up
One day we will all be free
One day things will iron themselves out flat
But today is a running day – he must run for his life
And for the life of his sister – run to stay alive
The stairs spiral up
And he is lost in the ghosts and the rain
The churches and the shoppers
The parsons and the peaceful.
Why is life contradictory,
Long-run and over-emotional?
The contents of his life are emptied on the floor
Like a spilt bag
Everyone sees
Everyone thinks they understand
They don’t
They only see their truth.

Wednesday, 20 September 2017


Yorkshire Rain

The greenest green
The green, greeneth of the day
Mist of rain fall
Bank after bank, after bank.
Softening the edges of the landscape
Tinting the colours of yellow fields.
Brown ploughed earth,
Lakes,
Tree branches,
all so softened and greened with spring and water
The water of life
Aqua vitae
Its not at the worlds end
In a cup once used by Christ
Its in every drop of rain
Cupped in my hand
Giving me life
On my tongue.

Tuesday, 19 September 2017



Slow Motion Under Water 

Sometimes
I’m just weary
For no good reason
And the idea of all that has happened
Comes to me
Resting – still – deep in greenwater
Slow motion under water,
And the weight of water the weight of the water
Is heavy and sleepy
The knowledge is a stone tied in string
And fastened to my body

Each movement – such an effort
Each moment spent underwater
Makes it more difficult to surface
And the rock tied in quarters
The white cotton bright against
The darkness of the surface of the rock
It is not weightless
It is a heavy rye loaf
It is made of solid porridge oats.

And time is in slow motion
Each movement a great effort
Each blink
Each heart beat
Each deadened sound takes hours to reach my water blocked ears.

When I hear it, it is faint
Distant
Lost in time
Irrelevant
Defunct.


Sunday, 17 September 2017



Till Receipt (Pudsey Leisure Centre)

Cherries so glossy and red
with syrup
Droplets of unguent juice
Cascading down
a twelve scoop wonder, pastel colours;
pistachio green, cappuccino, bubble gum, slush-puppy-blue-raspberry, 
below the grey-green mossyness of the ice-cold North Sea,
crash-crashing on the Demerara sand
of a misty beach in the British summer.

Sitting up on a hill in the wind blown scrub,
sheltering behind a gorse in golden-yellow bloom
Ice cream in hand
ice cream van on the road above us.
Green-sleeves never sounded so sweet.

Looking down-hill at the crazy golf course.
The little putts and courses,
flags fluttering on miniature stone bridges
and little buildings painted ultramarine and salmon.
And far below the road
And the funicular going up and coming down.

The sea a graphite smudge in the far distance
Tiny trotting donkeys
Dots on the sand
Are isolated family dramas
Veiled in drifts of rain.

The ice cream, in waffle cone is
Starting to melt.
And dribble down my hand.
I wipe it off with a Pudsey Leisure centre till receipt
I found in my pocket.

The letters, S11 9RX hastily scribbled down one side,
Now with water-colour-effect the numbers disintegrate to a purple-brown cormorant,
And I wonder to myself again, “am I a seven or a four?”

Stealthily catching a rivulet of
mint-choc-chip-coconut-praline on my tongue.
Looking out of the side of my glasses to see if anyone noticed and
Gathering my beautiful violet mac, ill-fitting as it is,

more closely around me.

Saturday, 16 September 2017



Pause to Action

When I look at the page
I pause…

Don’t over think it
Just go
Start with a memory and let it unwind to the sticking point.

And there
Let it rest for a moment
Re-live all it wants to share
Re-feel all it gives
Be in it.
Then let it go.

What comes is a gift
Not given every day
And yet a daily speaking
Of the thought
Bears fruit
Insight
Reflection
Further pause to action.
Later
It’s the Pensieve
It’s the wishing well
It’s the drop in the ocean
My thoughts, in pencil
Easier to erase.




Pele Tower

All the time, pervading, invading Pele View,
the yellow rape smells strongly of  bitter flowers.
The pollen drifts on windscreens
like a late spring snowdrift.

Pele Tower sits mutely,
it has no bell,
no voice, no alarm to say “I’m drowning”,
going under,
in this constantly moving mass of treacherous water.

The tower once a home to sheep.
Now an island,
adrift,
among and amidst a sea of citrus.
Intense colour saturation, cadmium hue light,
reflecting coldly on the warm sand-stone structure.

Swallows dive-bomb insects
just above the heads of zesty blooms.
And all the time in the background
the sound of water on rock.
The Scars at Cresswell resound day and night
to high winds smashing wave after wave
a dull roar
giving voice to the crop.

Subtle prismatic greys of the sea,
the changing greens of the forest,
the after image of acid lemon – to neon blue, bleeding over the edges
onto houses, trees, sky.
Colour polluting the eye and mind,
rendering all else, colourless and drab,
pushed back
as juicy neon pops forward.

Breaker crop,
breaking down the soil,
the balance of light and dark
is it all binary?

Sometimes it is
both  - and.
The yellow and the blue.
The swallows and the insects.
The sea and the rock.
The tower and the land.

The swallows are still chasing each other,
as I watch from the window at Pele View.
Skimming the rape,
wind moving sections of the blooms.
Perhaps potatoes would have been more useful?