Late Summer

This morning I used the stepping stones of freshly poured gold
To walk between the trees.

I breathed the night-cleansed air that I have too long taken for granted,
Filled my lungs until they burst.

I felt the warmth of the climbing sun on my face and fondly
Remembered loved-ones long gone.

I tasted the forest on my palate, like good wine, and thought
Of friends I could invite to dinner.

I saw autumn in the parched undergrowth and wilting leaves
And suddenly grew impatient for its technicolour thrill.

This morning I drank the world in and it stayed with me
And that is all I can ask.

August 2023

A Short Poem About Spring

Evening Walk

A chattering bush,
Betrays unruly sparrows,
Waiting for the seeds to fall,
From the groundsman's barrow.

A cloud dog chases 
A rabbit across the evening sky.
And the setting sun holds 
Stratus between its teeth.

We walk easily in the warmth,
Now winter has retreated,
Beneath the soil.
Spring leap.

April 2023

Old Boy (Hamish)

Old Boy
I shall miss your snores 
From beneath the dining room table, 
Between the larder and the front door. 
Their low mumble through the wall -
The sound of a continuity announcer on Radio 4. 

Old Boy
I shall miss your meet
And greet, with wagging tail. 
Your dolphin nose nudging my thigh, 
Leading me away from the open sea, 
To calmer waters, the safety of the shore.

Old Boy
I shall miss that long 
Sigh and those puppy eyes,
Your shoulders slumped and head hung low,
As if you have never been less loved in your life,
While loitering near to where the treats are kept. 

Old Boy
I shall miss you lying
In the middle of the kitchen floor, 
Immovable, inconvenient, oblivious, 
To the humans stepping over you, 
Like clumsy astronauts walking on your moon.

Old Boy
I shall miss that noble,
Gentle, heart of yours, 
In that lumpy, bumpy body
Held aloft by those stiff old joints, 
Trembling with every step.

Yes, old boy, I shall miss you. 
It’s been the best of walks. 


May 2022

As it should


A little before 
Half-past five on a Sunday morning,
The nursing home phoned to tell me 
My father had died at precisely 5.13am.

I remember thinking, 
Is it still ok to send him my love?
But it was a short conversation
And there was no more to be said.

As I lay back in bed,
The rain fell.
A short, sharp, Spring, shower. 

I remember thinking,
I wonder if the soul 
Is like the rain in reverse, 
Pixelated silver drops rising.

Then the rain stopped  
And the dawn chorus resumed. 

I remember thinking,
I wonder if that is the angels
Singing for my Dad as he arrives
At the pearly gates. 

But it was simply the 
World turning,
As it should.

May 2022

Holden Pond

The blacksmith’s hammer
And the tanner’s mallet
Fell silent here a long time ago.

Their calloused pounding hands
And leather beating hearts
Now lying six feet under.

Earthen scars of forgotten
Trades, slowly fade in the shade
Cast by carefree trees.

And, but for the ducks
With their flotillas of young,
These waters would be still.

The perfect place
For my troubled mind
To rest and forge these lines.

SD 10/4/21