Carl Fabergé – a god of small things

Did God know, when he made
The world that he would make you
And you would make mini
World’s out of his shiny

Of course, God knows everything
God is everything, God’s work
Is intricate, the diamond
The cut, the carve, the egg

It reminds us of the surprise
Of birth, of Spring, every
Year, reborn, but totally
Unexpected in its

April Sun in Scotland

Light everywhere, swimming in the brooks,
Springing off each root and mound of moss.

Then underneath the light, the quiet heat
Softly prizes lamb-pink blossoms out of blue.

Springing back

Light, we can
Dance again,
Without the
Rules of Frost
To hem us in.

Marching into April

The year is in its adolescence

It is trying its body on for size

But not yet used to its long legs

And sex and looks

Awkward when it walks and feels

Awkward when the full formed daffodils

Suggest a cheeky bit of summer before dinner

; –  )


There is hope, there is memory

But there is no knowing what will be

Beyond this time of promise, heavy with buds that

May or may not

 Bear fruit, depending on whether

Frost sweeps Autumn’s sweets or thunder

Brightens all souls to glinting parodies of Paradise

: –  )

It’s called Spring because it lifts us up to Summer before Winter lets us down

The heaviness has


Whatever made the beach sand pound has 


And is now ebb and flow

In softer

Dapples to the livelier light.


Then the grey torpor 


Sifted through Day’s warm mesh,it


On the bottom of the sea waiting

To be ground

Again by Winter’s deepest tide.

Last bad SAD poem before Spring, I hope


I am done with this day

Put it back on the shelf

Or in my bag, that way


I can read it on the

Bus, if I change my mind

For one that wants to be


Reading something new.

Now is old, blank and clean,

That extra page preserved


For silent doodling, no-

One watching or listening

Now that ‘The End’ has passed.

SAD, never mind, anticipate Spring.


This is the time of year when

Music needs to dig deep

To find us, rap a rope

Around our waists and wind

Us up to the light.


This is the time of year

When summer sounds are

Hollow and clatter round

Like flies scanning for jam

Round  an empty jar.


This is the time of year

When Love’s warmth is

Set in relief against the

Grey, when any ray is welcomed

 Like a hero from the war.


This is the time of year

When something as tiny as a

Crocus bud is all the hope

We need to prove again that

Life springs from mud.

Harvest lament

This is when we harvest

What we sowed in Spring

And saw in June, July and

August; this is the cut and

Dry, the funeral of the year

When we still have its aged

Flesh with us in the room,

Testament to the wind, the

Rain, the sun and the long

Days spent filling up with

Juice and flavour, ready for

The journey back to ground,

Earth, soil: core to core.

Remembering New Year’s Eve at the borders of Spring

This is the dark

Before the dawn of

2011, the beginning

Of a new end, the

Time before the day

When darkness comes in

Waves and cars

Whistle past unseen their

Cargoes too excited

Happy buzzing hysterical

Tipsy nauseous, to be asleep.

This is the time, the closer

Bit to silence, when thoughts

Expand to the edges of the

Room to fill it whole with consciousness

Before the dawn

Switches on and

It goes pop, dazzled

By the light and bursts to smithereens

That disperse across

London to meet

Their final resting places

On park benches, church spires,

Kebab signs and  windowsills

Of strangers, and of friends.

Rest, oh rest peacefully, let

The year float off and keep

The best bits clean and crispy

To savour slowly over Time

And nourish away regret,

Pain has left.