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Poetry, bikes, dementia...
Poetry, bikes, dementia...
If music be the food of love then poetry may just be the language of emotion. Home for my own words and those of others who in some way inspire, inform, entertain or educate me.
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…
Scene one: a cubicle in A & E For what is deathIf not escapeFrom pain in this worldAnd promise in the next? The words sermon-like. Disembodied. A narrator.A bed of music. Pings and beeps. The baseline drone of a ventilator.…
Federico García Lorca was one of Spain’s finest poets. Assassinated by Fascists in August 1936 soon after the start of the Spanish Civil War his death should remind us of the dangers of fascism as it rises once again, not…
Midnight strikes on the memorial clockA flame throwing dragon is guarding the flockWhile a gunpowder fog glistens and glosses The uniform slates and the uniform mosses. For God and for Country. Lest we forget. A window on North Street turned aquarium greenWhere a…
First south and west, then north and east, I quarter up the sky.I’m watching for your sickle wings to scythe across my eye. I look, I look, then look again and listen for your scream.But bar the clap of pigeon…
The “words on a line” world premiere Yup, calling it a world premiere may sound hyperbolic. But, technically at least, it happens to be true… So here I am in full flow (rapture the photographer, Fabio Barry, called it) belting…
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…
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…
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…
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…