Sunday, 30 March 2014



I think, it was the winding lane that did it – the one
Lined with daffodils (Wordsworth would have approved).
I had my own poem set out, open like the cupped

Yellow offerings; perhaps I’d have added in:  Sun-trapped
Stone steps, coming down from the white-washed loft;

And what the house held:
The bed-rails, the heavy wardrobe and ancient drawers,
The lace of the curtains, and the old dresser,
A range to help a kettle sing, and streams...

Of light across the lanolin floor – peeping
From wide window-sills, with hills outside;

Now, I have to content myself with the fact that - we have
A bigger vegetable patch here, than the little fenced one
At the back of the cottage we nearly had,
I knew the man who lived there once.

Saturday, 1 March 2014




On a Sunday in mid-summer
right at the edge of the park
You come to me;

talking future plans
shining eyes
and a heart that dared.
We saw ourselves

buying a car to travel
down to the coast
whenever we took the urge.

All planned out under the elm
of eager spreading roots.
Many seeds scattered

ideas with wings on the breeze
hope floating all the way
towards the sea along winding
open-windowed roads.


Smashed in spring – the last                              
season you inhaled;
lying singing on the back seat.

The front driver’s side was saved,
letting me drive
to dreams that died.

Dreams have a way
Of coming at you by the front
And leaving by the back door.

I pass it now, the car
In the scrap yard
At the edge of the town
It’s only half now.