A place of greater safety

What if I woke up one

Morning and the sound

Of courting blue tits

In the Holly teased the

Edges of the light?

What if the lung of my

First waking breath

Was cleaner with the

Trafficless calm as

I rolled out, feeling for

My first draft of tea?

What if the garden patch

Was crotcheted with little

Notes of purple from the

Blushing bumble-bee loved weeds?

What if I could read and breathe

The sun-long day to myself, safe

As houses. I can, lucky me, how

Grateful I am.

S is for Spring

The threat is veiled in

Spring. Sods law that

We should be afflicted

In Nature’s sweetest time.

Our sun is fresh and

Docile now, a young

Child beckoning us

To play with the urgency

Of major chords rousing

The choirs of busy fluting

Starlings to hurry on

With their plans.

Blue tit

In the light places there

Is a tree of sparkling light

With a pitch-perfect blue

Tit balancing behind on

A new-sapping branch

So soft the little bird

Would feel, perched on

My trembling palm

I would never wonder at

It’s greeny yellow fluff

I can see why we lost

Humans cage these pretty

Little masterpieces, tricking

Our minds that they love

To share our sunless company,

Spring doesn’t care about you

There were some violets

Bees were tickling for

Bits, treats, eats to please

Their little spaces at home

There is blossom tingle

Below the coo and call

Of silky pidgeons fatting

With morning crumbs.

Hello sparks of flower

Sharpen cherry with

Hard shiny yellow

Look! Two cats sifting

The sky for low hanging


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.