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YOUR CART

Writing is an act of faith.
Publishing is an act of optimism.
Inviting comments is an act o
f insanity.
Feel free to join the insanity
and tell me what you think...

1/7/2019 0 Comments

Some days...

Some days I want to wear grey
No matter how bright the sun
Or beckoning the day
 
Some days I want to fade away
To step into the background
And have nothing to say
 
Some days I want to give in
Let go of every last thing
And drift into oblivion
 
Some days...
 
Most days I fight the lure
With colour, music, light
With contact, friends, kin
With all those small kindnesses:
The touch of a sympathetic hand,
The warmth of a fire and a good book
The beseeching eyes of a dog
Who senses all is not well and offers
Love.
0 Comments

10/10/2016 1 Comment

Autumn Morning

​Gossamer threads
Glisten in the air.
Grass, silvered with dew,
Shimmers dreamlike.
 
Hedgerows, laden
With hips and haws,
Gleam with polished
Scarlet berries.
.
Oak and chestnut
Shed glossy fruit
Gifts for squirrels
And errant children.
 
Summer blue sky
Belies the chill
As summer trees begin to don
The fiery hues of Autumn.
1 Comment

2/10/2016 2 Comments

Gale

The birch yields
As passionate wind strips delicate fronds.
Elegant.
 
The oak resists
As obdurate wind wrenches ancient limbs.
Dominant.
 
The yew endures
As renegade wind rips evergreen spikes.
Sentinel.
 
The willow sways,
Lashing tortured wind with pitiless whips.
Triumphant.
2 Comments

1/27/2016 0 Comments

South Downs, January 2016

​Wind from the south herds sullen clouds
Northwards across the Downs
Revealing glimmers of washed blue sky
Shot through with silvery light
From a pale, inadequate sun.
 
Gulls bend their wings in sudden swirls,
Angled across the sky
While magpies, indifferent to the storm,
Hop, earthbound, chattering stilled
By the rush of blustering wind.
 
Sheep stand forlorn, their huddled groups
Seek shelter by the hedge.
Pied wagtails flutter wildly in pairs
Tossed by the buffeting blows
Of the moist, malevolent gale.
 
The hills stand steadfast, enduring,
Solid beneath the sky,
Ancient guardians of man made fields,
Resistant to every breath
Of Nature’s implacable force.
0 Comments

11/16/2015 0 Comments

In tribute



The year ebbs
Sodden fields slump beneath sullen skies
Waiting for winter's blast.

Hatred unfurls
Grief immeasurable tears our hearts
Splinters lives.

Above a kestrel waits
Hunter.
The wren sings from the bramble hedge
Heartfelt challenge to the sky.
​Hope.

(first published in Firefly Magazine, Issue 3, December 2015)
0 Comments

    Author

    I spent most of my life not realising I was a writer.  I just thought everybody's minds worked like mine.  On some level I had a vague idea that the conversations with people who weren't there might just put me in the crazy category, so I kept quiet.  Besides, the people in my head were usually more interesting which was never going to win me friends out there in the reality sphere.  Fiction has always seemed to offer more interest than the real world and finally I realised - this is how writers think!  Normal people don't have these thoughts.  So, I had the imagination and the crazy thoughts.  The only thing needed to turn me into a writer was to put pen to paper...  Or, in my case, fingers to keypad.  Here goes!

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