top of page


The Kiss

I stole your lips before they’d flown

To laugh and whistle while you work

Touched them tender with my own

Then punch in the long days hurt

Countdown the hours –'til you're home


 I Blame My Body

When did it all begin,

This new life after the operation?

Siamese twins joined at the hip and shoulder,

We silently slipped behind a warm boulder

Into a deep sleep of comfort and dull routine.


For myself I blame my body.

Bit by bit it moved, adjusted to discomfort,

Without asking permission, without notice,

It all ebbed away.

Do we really want to go to all the trouble and expense

Of another operation?


Can it ever be the same again?

Did we really wake up face to face and smile,

Lost in each other’s world rather than our own,

All those many years ago?

Emerald Falls

Stumble ran a snow ice mile but stopped a bend away

Like rushing with the wrapping before the box is opened,

You check that someone’s watching –

It’s not the same without you.

Christmas Gift
Paint and Brush

From Here To Home

Thoughts pull me from here to home and then run on

Like paint that panics past a heavy brush​


Into a room where actions speak

And emotions stir the rainbow paint.​


My baton brush palates the score

And colours sing the words out loud.​


I hold the silent matt white sound

And empty in the deafened roar. 


Water thins to douse the flames

But just bleeds down the arm again. 


The ceilings tough – so cover up.

Tool Shed

A Shed Load of Stories

His work tools placed in a toolbox.

My throw- a -ways thrown on the floor.

A plane of planes. A bright, steel blade, 

Cutting a swathe through the 1950’s

A tree load of shavings, cutting to the core.


Memories of DIY before B & Q

When there was only time

To measure the blade cutting the swathe

And to spell words out properly

And      to         do        a     proper        job.


Holding Sylvia      

Warm water drops from a cotton ball

Into an eye that has seen out the ages.

Searing pain … she clutches me;

Holding her Carer, her son now her mum again.


Tiny poultice on a dot of red

Held, like a spider held by its web.

Soft brush fingers sweep away – 

All tears – all pain –relief again – 


“There, there - there, there.”

Here in Sanlucar, I think of her warm brow,

Which soon I’ll kiss “night-night” again,

Before I kiss it cold once more.


Let’s Talk

Thanks for submitting!

bottom of page