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.

The hare

A little loose. Like a soft toy sewn on where it’s lost it’s stuffing. Magpies showing zero respect You sketched our field with straight line speed. Sent my blood coursing, bounding. The hearts’ pounding now stopped. In a beat. A…

Words on a line

One way or another I’ve been writing for a living for more than 40 years – first as a cub newspaper reporter on the Reading Chronicle; then as a journalist and broadcaster for the BBC; and now as a budding…

Coronation

Union flags and bunting. The Kings Head. A telly on the wall And a row of mugs Raising glasses. Bottoms up, no shilling (coronation bitter £4 a pint) But press ganged by the Daily Mail All the same. Toasting two…

After the plough

Ring rolling in a Bedfordshire field. Breaking up the heavy clodsAnd leverets. Blind to the danger.  I stopped at first. Got down from the tractorTo shoo and scatter. At first. Too many of the sods  Harrowing. The clatterFlint on iron drowning out…

Two smiles

Tying up loose ends, you saidAll crow’s feet and beak. A confiding birdPerched by your desk peckingAt the keyboard when I walked in. That smile still startles I swear it’s youSpin sad to find myself window shopping for one not…