Trace fossils fill the void

Trace fossils carried with us
Marks of those we loved, and those we did not ever know;
Faded handwriting on an envelope 
A string of pearls broken though 
Worn crests on silver cutlery 
Names and places 
Census returns
Trace is what we carry- what we yearn 
Like the map on our skin
Filling the void left behind  .

Red Sky in Morning

The blush pink sky twists the forecast
Wrapping the clouds in ominous hue
There’s clarity in warning
The air is still
Birdsong is active
Shrill cries of the blackbird cut through
Too sharp are the angulations of the fields
Carving lines of clipped brown hedges with shards of gold
Acid green are the fields 
Under the low winter sun
Transient patterns 
About to change to
A wall of grey.

Happy New Year

Well another year of highs and lows.

The Highs : publishing my book of poetry -, the arrival of whippet puppy Pepper , our daughter’s graduation which had been postponed for a year, the new greenhouse for the garden.

Running in the Slow Lane

The lows 12 months ago today we said a final goodbye to Dad at a covid restricted funeral. I have taught through two lockdowns this year facing weeks of online lessons and endless recording . 12 months on and we still face restrictions and uncertainty.

We pray for a better 2022 and thank all of you for your tremendous support of my poetry. I have loved being part of this very special community.

Man and Nature

Inner Hope , Hope Cove 
Whilst spume filled waves pound  the harbour wall 
Grey seals languish in the swirling grey
Fluid their bodies move in time to the surge of the sea in effortless syncopation  
A dive beneath the huge waves 
Refutes  the dangers 
so close to rocks 
Rising with silver fish aloft
Rolling over and over in play
A  tide waits for no man
Relentless it rolls 
Thrusting it’s energy 
To weakened defence
One is at odds; the other in union.

Through Darkened Days

Old trappings blow through the fingers of the wind 
Memories cling to bare branches
As the ivy curls braids
And ties bows.

Winter sharpens the breath of time
And the cold cuts steal
Geese shout songs on the wing.

Through darkened days
Foxed and etched 
Light is a silvered mirror-
A reflection of who we are
And who we are to be.


The focus shifts
To stir the soul.

There is Music

Poised and waiting the walls creak
Squeezed by the cold 
The silence thickens
With anticipation.

Cutting the void
Pierces a hollow faltering sound,
A fragile line
Which grows like a flame,
Wicking its way to the barrelled heights,
Filling the space
Harmonic and melodious.
Where once there were many
Just two fill the quire.
Something stirs.

Are the walls awakened once again?
Where are the ghosts?
There is no where to hide.
There is music once more.