Rich Uridge

Rich Uridge

Training company boss by day. Poet and a whole heap of other things by night. Plus the son of a mother who was killed in a care home while living with dementia.

To a mechanic dying young

A cycle, Triumph Bonneville, Its throttle full up old Lords Hill. The rider leans with n’er a skid A dimpled grin beneath his lid. Kiwi-bred so hell to leather Clad instead in maroon sweater. Yet softly spoken, quite the catch…

Twiglets

Photo of a blackbird by Stephen Emery wildlife

I believed you when You said their legs were made from Twiglets. I wish I still did. We were one blackbird with two wings back then. But I’ve been flying around in circles ever since You flew the nest Leaving…

I say goodnight

Photo of red roses

A poem for Valentine’s Day I say: goodnight I love you. You say: I love you more See you in the morning. But there will be a time There will be a time When the night is not good And…