Break up

Yesterday, you were my tomorrow,

and now in the present you are my past,

i sit on the park bench,

and listen to your sobs, sobs

that will echo down the years,

it was the right choice,

but I didn’t know that, then.


Storm of words

The sky is grey,

More white than grey,

Like a bundle of ruined newspaper,

Puddle mulched,

Each monochromatic line

A ruination of words.

Water falls from the sky

And perpendicular lines of drizzle,

Liquid punctuation,

Fall onto my face.

I pace the dampening streets,

Thoughts tilted to the heavens,

And reconcile myself

To the oncoming storm.

Feather treasure

light as air

once you graced a proud pheasant’s tail,

resplendent in shades

of dun and white,

black stripes,

slender ink marks

along the thin quill


she found you

discarded in flight

upon the tree line,

and claimed you,

a feather to join the treasure

she found on

other woodland walks,

conkers, leaves and twigs

piled haphazardly

on her shelf.


Sleep comes upon you quickly,

Wrapping your tender body

In sheets soft as cotton.

You rub tiredness into your eyes

With small actions of your small fingers,

And exhaustion creates smudges of shadow

Beneath your eyes.

The light is low,

A dim blue glow on the nightstand,

And your teddy is clasped

In your arms with a well-worn blanket

Made soft with hours of play.

As I croon to you with gentle sounds,

Sleep comes upon you quickly

Your breathing is deep and low

And off to dreamland you go.

Spring blooming

The winter is dying,

ice cold limbs

wrapping around

a body left

insubstantial as a twig

by the absence of snow.

Light as crisp leaves, now

it seems that a warm spring breeze

will banish

the spirit of winter

to wait underground

for the Earth to freeze again.

Snowdrops close their delicate petals

porcelain faces

cracking, as the warm sun

coaxes life from buried bulbs, which in their turn

stretch and strain

like vegetable eggs,

expelling root and stem

into the waiting soil.


A grey sky rises

From regular brickwork

And overgrown grass.

The colour is blown out

Too bright, the levels of light


For the scene.

And much as I alter,

And much as I change

The saturation of the colour

I cannot find a balance

That will equalise

What I see.

Lazy dog

The lazy dog

beats time with his tail,

each dull thump of fur on floor

sends motes of dust

rising, rising

into the sun-shot afternoon heat.

He whines, a nasal yawn,

bears his yellowed teeth

and snaps his jaws

at the flies who plague his brindled hide.

He is old now, old and weary

with the years hanging heavy on four arthritic paws

and so, he dozes, with half-closed eyes,

his only movement

the slow baton of his tail

conducting an invisible orchestra

in common time.