Poems

It didn’t turn out as I expected,
the ache of life went its own way.
I wasn’t ready for much beyond
the softness of white wings
I wanted to fall into
their folds deep as cream,
a wiping out of self.

But here you are, red beaked,
gliding grimly beside the muddied edge
carrying broken twigs,
dragging green weed,
pressing towards me
spitting, unasked for,
with hawthorns in your eyes.

I borrow your feathers, brittle as brush,
a widow’s camouflage, marked out.
You beat on against the tide, ruffling water.
I gather haws from the bank,
weave twigs into rafts,
stretch out my neck
for a second chance.

First published in Orbis 199 (March 2022)

Black swanRead More

You were my middle C.
An upright flush with polish
on which we placed the most important things.

You played in all weathers,
dampers soaking up the years of voice,
ending in the stillest pianissimo.

Now labelled sheaves of music
line the shelves, parchment thin
and all the hammers thunder

furiously out of time.

First published online by Coverstory Line breaks  (Dec 2021)

PianoRead More

I join you on your island twice a month.
I am punctual, mooring carefully, so that I can leave on time.

I find you hunkering down among the armchairs
washed up in a clearing of white space.

The walnut bureau looms above a scattering of flotsam,
finger-worn fish knives, napkin rings, forgotten glasses.

Today it’s tropical, steam rising from radiators
spread with sheets, pyjamas, pants.

In the distance, the falling notes of a flute,
the purr of machines settling for the night.

You have stopped going to the edges to look out,
you stare down, as though searching for a coin,

lost in this familiar place where the rooms fall in
upon themselves and all around is the swell of other lives.

First published in New Contexts 2 (2021)

White IslandRead More

I wake spinning like a compass seeking north,
in a cold space of walls
too far away, unpadded by books,
where the windows are in the wrong place.

I’ve swapped sirens and bumper parking,
a scrap of grass strewn with kebab wrappings
for a lawn, a magnolia, a pond of frogs,
an up-and-over garage, the cry of gulls.

I stay silent about the sadness of leaving
the Egyptian newsagent with his campaign
against porn, Gino’s lemon sorbet, bagels
eaten warm in alleys late at night.

Here the new green is blinding
and the welcome tulips from my sister
hang open, red and rude,
glossy with the threat of Spring.

First published in New Contexts 2 (2021)

Tulips for a new houseRead More

If you fold the land in half
their shores would almost touch.
Two rivers: where mud slabs roll
to the sea like harems of fat seals.
Mud that drags down an unwary dog,
run off the lead, eyes now wild with fear.
Marshland — neither ground nor sea —
tenuous, it cannot hold us, unless to preserve.

The Severn, fickle as a teenager
glittered-up blue to the hills of Wales,
then sulking in a grubby grey,
prickling with the wind.
A legoland of boating
lakes, picnics, sundaes
and zimmers.
The sea unreachable.

The Stour, a straight run
from West to East and back.
Thin black sticks marking silent creeks
as our boat slid the shallows.
We’d watch the moon slip above the Ness,
the tide murmuring,
filling the dark channels
running thick like oil.

This border land between
greens and blues
is difficult to cross.
The sea either reaching in
or out, leaving
fissures in the mud
deeper than the ice-holds
of rusting iron trawlers.

I draw lines linking these and other shores
that once were home.
A zigzag of a life.
Then fold and bend along the lines
looking for meaning.
I make a sort of angular bowl
that could, perhaps,
hold water.

First published in Reach Poetry, Indigo Dreams, Nov 2020 & Poem of the Year 2020

Coastal origamiRead More

(Severn Estuary)

Under the bridge are the Welsh Grounds,
shadows below the surface,
mud, sand, and scree rising up at low tide
as though just born.

From Black Rock the last fishermen
wade out into chuckling water,
stroking the shoulders
of Lady Bench and Gruggy.

They set down lave nets
cowering for a catch
in river spaces they have named
Grandstand, Nesters Rock, Lighthouse Vear.

We wait on the edge,
longing to be on that half-seen land
that arches up, black-backed,
then disappears, unvisited.

Bridge lights spangle on the water,
cars thunder overhead.
You kiss me gently, brackish,
like the incoming tide.

Caught by the tideRead More

This year we only pick the fallers.
Bramleys the size of two fat fists, sharp with green.
They wait on the lawn like an unfinished game.

There are fewer of us now
so we don’t wrap them for sharing –
we still have last year’s, a frozen harvest.

We bundle them up in her outhouse
with the dead dog’s bowl, the birdseed  
and the empty whisky bottles.

She can peel them in one go
neat spirals dropping between her thin fingers
while I cut chunks that crunch like snow.

We make an apple crumble, caramel soft,
with cinnamon and too much butter
served hot with custard, the way she likes it.

I leave early, drive back down the M5,
hands knuckling the steering wheel, 
half the crumble on the back seat, growing cold.

First published by Teignmouth Poetry
(third prize Local Competition 2021).

Apple crumbleRead More

The sea has purged itself
spewing the beach with its dead.
We wade out into a grave
of colours from another world.

Myths once hidden in mermaids’
purses seep into sand.
High shored sea slugs weep.
Star fish crackle under sea cabbages.

Nothing scuttles back.
The sea has pulled itself nearer the moon
clenched in recovery.
Soon all will be bone dry.

You walk in silence, holding in
secrets lest they might leave
dark tendrils along the shore
gasping for air.

First published in Artemis May (2021)

Spring tideRead More

Gifts for the dying recommend foot cream.
But I bought you a butter dish.
There was comfort in butter,
soft but solid, cradled in utilitarian china.

We tried to add weight to your thin frame,
ate mash and hot cross buns in bed,
stayed under covers, left the curtains drawn,
licked knives, brushed crumbs from dirty sheets.

The cost of your new glasses snagged
as we made calculations of life afterwards.
We loved like strangers, hiding
mutual disappointments in silence.

Now I regret the longevity of that gift,
its white cow still innocently grazing on top. 
I leave it clean and empty by the bread bin.
Sometimes I lift and replace the lid.

First published in Raceme April 2023

Gifts for the dyingRead More

is a maze of steps taken blindfold across hard floors
in calculated time

a hedgeless field where task and tax chafe in twin boots
that do not fit

a softened hand that holds back the head, forcing down
cold shots.

Work is a scaffold

or a boat

a locket,
clasped on an in-breath.

It begins with dice
rolled in a nursery

ends in the corner of a felted drawer
closing soundlessly.

First published in Tears in the Fence 76 Autumn 22

WorkRead More