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.

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…

Three kinds of light

Photo of Brian and Sheila Uridge leaving for their honeymoon

A walking stick, a deadly arc Your face unstitched and come apart. The dying light’s the deepest dark It casts a shadow, leaves a mark. A finger painting just in red A rainbow arched beside your bed. No treasured end,…

The last bedroom on the right

Exterior view of Ridgeway Lodge care home in Dunstable

There is no pastRememberedOr futureImagined.Just the present.Tense.A singularity.You live in the moment. Very on point as they say.Content (or so I hope) sucking tea from a sippy cupOr shredding tissues in your lapWhile I am walking an imaginary dog (the…

Augur

Though August’s barely halfway throughThe copse is clad in autumn’s hueIts summer greens now fading fastAnd taking on a rusty cast. Embroidered by the evening sunThe trees from threads of gold were spunBut in the furnace split and crackenAnd dieback…