I am a Little Meadow Flower


Bright Pink Flower Against Bright Pink Grasses

I am a little meadow flower
Slightly ragged
Barely noticeable
Sometimes called weed
Lost almost
In a field of many blooms
Adding to the beauty
Of the many
But nothing on my own
I take the soil
Whatever’s given me
And make seed
For the future
For whoever follows
That is all
I am a little meadow flower

September 2016


Love Letter to a Home that Never was


The warm sun on my skin, the stillness of an evening
When the light’s just right, from my balcony
Your rustling grasses, your papery leaves
The thick dense bark, the shiny bark-free

Following the line of often invisible watercourses, the stands of trees
Ochre stoned ground, cascading hills
The twist of a mountain road, the asphalt of a modern highway
Groves across the hills, farms in the valleys

The never-ending whine of the two-wheeled
An impromptu concert of horns
Distant cars on the highway in the warm darkness
The bray of a steadfast donkey

The sun-baked goods of your fields
The bleach and echo of your fish market
The rhythms of your days, the rhythms of your voices
A twang of wire echoing over wood

The colours of your walls, the cool whiteness of your buildings
The rise and fall of tiled roofs, ornately barred windows
Shaded courtyards, splash of flowers, yet more metalwork
The mustiness of an unloved place

Your bumps in the road of history, the poverty
The tangled, narrow streets of your older districts
The ever-taller tower blocks, the houses sprawling out into the once countryside
The boom, the bust

I still love you, in the flashes of memories and in the achings of the night
I still love you, be you dream or fantasy or mere illusion
I will love you, forever and wherever

(written September 2015)

Heroes Yet Villains


Once upon a time, when we were young
The heroes were white and pure
Stood apart, tall and strong
When did we raise them?
So they would always be taller?
Did we make them or did they make us?
Their gold glittered at us
Sunlight or human natyre?
But it was only there to fill the cracks
Distraction, lure, deception
Yet how we believed
Maybe we wanted to believe, hoped
Regardless, no matter what
For someone bigger, better, stronger than ourselves
But we worshipped eggshells
Fragile, broken, redundant
Hollow and empty, with nothing to offer
Yet they cast long shadows
We are forever in their thrall

Memory Loss


Is there a word for forgetting what a word is?

You know, just a single word

A term, I think they call it

I can’t even remember the word for that

So how am I supposed to remember the word for forgetting words?


I think there must be a word for it

There always is

I remember a world of fancy words


A once upon a time world

That never was


I’m nostalgic but have little idea of how I arrived here

I can’t remember what I’m forgetting


From Poem-a-Day: There is Beauty Everywhere


The Prairie Town | Academy of American Poets.

A Bird Song


The words of Christina Rossetti have spoken to me for a very long time; I am no scholar or reader and perhaps am really conscious of just one of her poems.  It was the first poem to ever ‘speak’ to me, the first that echoed some deep, inner sentiment of my own and translated it into solid words, clear, simple, beautiful.  All the other poems I had so far met were either fun or profound, incomprehensible or twaddle.  Mainly the latter two.

I opened up this poem without really reading the title and certainly without paying any attention to the author’s name.  (Or perhaps I should say the ‘poet’s’?)  (I find that poem titles can be awfully disappointing if not misleading so I’ve given up with them).

The title must have registered slowly, in that barely conscious way of mine, because it reminded me and made me smile.  And then I loved the words and thought that must share it with you all.  And then I read the poet’s name.

So here is another poem by Christina Rossetti.  She may have be referring to graceful swallows but I would like to be cheeky and dedicate the first verse to a slightly less refined but no less adorable Manky-bird.

It has been a good spring for blue tits; I hear them sing nearly every day, even from my bed and when I make it to the window or the balcony, I often see them flying past as there is now several (pairs, families?) living in the neighbourhood.  I always wonder who they are.  I always remember.

Candy Floss Nights


(Candy Floss Abstract – I cannot upload, process or post photos at the moment because the gremlins won.  This is the photo you would be seeing).

Soft, magical

Spun strands

Pretty pink


Pegged up

High, out of reach

Attached to the mundane

(Sock dryers, of all things)

Yet still fantastical



But so out of reach

Can I have some?


Everyone else has some

Do they take it for granted?

Stuffing it in their mouths

Sticky fingered



They move on

They can always have some more

Another time

Any time

But not me



So ephemeral

So out of reach

I’d be so appreciative

Of even just a little bit


Everyone else has some


I can see it

I can taste it

But so out of reach

Perhaps some other time

Why not me too?

Soft, magical

Pretty pink

But so out of reach