top of page
My Poetry

I began writing poetry in high school, and have written many poems over the years. Faithfully copied into one special book, they have remained exclusively mine.

A journey of thoughts, emotions and memories.


Now that I have published my first book, and to celebrate this beautiful new website, I have decided to launch my poems out into the world.


The first era is the 60’s and 70’s, followed by the 80’s and 90’s, and finally 2000 onwards.



October Days


And the earth is cold,

Much colder than the yellow warmth of summer told,

Colder even than the green-grey mist

Of morning hinted



Golden, browny-red,

All have long since gone, and in their stead the blue wind stares

Autumn now no longer warm but harsh

And bleakly friendless



In the trees reflected

Leaves that point their jaundiced forms against an ice-grey sky,

Clouds that drift in fleeting hopes of finding

Spring, or tears to cry.         

                                               © 1968

Love Lies Bleeding

Nothing can move me now

I feel barren, yet churning with impulses

As yet unexpressed,

Causing only a slight trembling of the hand.

I cannot stand the silence.

Like the dark it thuds, and pricks my skin,

Pressing, oppressive, screaming for attention

Begging release.

Don’t interrupt, please don’t interrupt.

Why don’t you ever understand

I don’t need help, not that kind.

Not the kind made up of small derisive chat

And superficial comment.

I agree with your thoughts,

I am perhaps impossible, difficult,

Don’t say masochistic

Clinical term

Categorizing me

I will not be




You are my only reality.


You are constant.


But sad to think


You can never leave me

Only because


You were never


With me.





© 1968

Love Lost

Is it that I do not know you?

That drifting past my mind

Your thoughts evade me?

I cannot hope that you will ever lose your past indifference

Your self-concern

Your total lack of all responsibility.

And yet I want to reach you,

Need to help you find yourself,

The self that should have been.

If only one could change, before the end is realised,

Before the trembling tether snaps between confusion and reality.

Then, seen through self-complacent apathy

Life abandons hope, direction.

Aimless, through your blind aversion.

And now, through time, the gulf has widened.

Yes I would try, if I could hope to see but once

A flickering, but once, a merging of the ways

A sign, however slight, of sympathy for someone else

For someone else who needs you

More than you yourself.                                                                      





Late the sunlight glances through my



And the white paint gleams in streams of


strange wetness.

The surrounding shapes once white, now


grey, form shafts of contrasts.

No black and white divisions, but soft   



Glimpses of the future.




Strange the sound of rain

When one lies low 

                        in bed



Like footsteps on dry leaves

When one walks fast

                        with feet



Like windy autumn nights

When gusts blow soft

                         the trees






© 1969                 

Kindred Spirit

It was as if I’d always known her

There she sat, alone on the edge of a rock

One of many that dropped in shelves

Towards a gently ebbing sea.

The rocks showed clefts an ridges,

Holes and breaks that told too clearly

Just how little permanence there is,

And how much change.

She seemed absorbed in barnacles and limpets,

Occasionally prodding with a plimsolled toe

As if to question their assumed security.

Once or twice she moved her head,

Not noticing me, but giving me the chance

To notice her.

And certainly I studied the small round features

Framed by straggling brown blonde curls,

The green eyes mournful, almost discontented 

In themselves.

Her nose was one shade browner than the rest

Her mouth just slightly sad.

She sighed, and tried to pull her cardigan

More firmly round her shoulders,

Frowning slightly at its resistance,

Tiredly resigning herself to its preferred role

As a strange sleeved wrap, hanging off her shoulders.

Indeed it suited her shawl like, for although

I guessed her age to be not more than twelve

She had the look of someone older, understanding.

I only knew that of all the people lazing in that quiet bay

She alone would I have chosen as a companion,

And I  ten years her senior.

How I sat but yards away and did not speak

I’ll never know.

But when she turned at last and met my gaze

We smiled, as if

We knew each other’s problems,

And it helped to know.

© 1973



It lay there, on the cold tiles by the fireplace,

Well and truly smashed.

I stared; I felt cold, like those tiles

Frozen into the room’s interior.

Why did it have to be one of three?

Leaving two with no beginning,

No end.

I knew I should clear away the fragments

But I felt too much like crying.

No doubt the cat….but

Why think about the cause, sufficient that it fell.

My creation

Moulded to unite the lines and curves of my choosing

Creating, at least for me,

A meaningful form.

One transition was perfect,

This second change is cruel

I would rather have come in

To find

That original lump of clay.


                                                                                             © 1973


Cats know how to have

    A good time

       Doing nothing

Or very little

    All of which 

       Is quite exhausting

And requires

   A lot

     Of sleep

                                                                 © 1989

Memories ( more ways than one)

When I try to remember

The important moments in my life

My mind is like a VCR

When the remote

Doesn’t work properly

And the tape fast forwards

Instead of re-winding

And you hit pause in all the wrong places.

                   © 1989

Cadboro Bay

Walking along the beach

Every morning.

Precious minutes

before the day begins,

Before the cries of gulls

And the soft crunch of

feet on pebbles

Gives way to telephones

Traffic, and terribly important tasks

 that should have been done yesterday

Or sooner.

This is the only way

to start the day.

To breathe in the fresh damp air

To smell the salt waves

Rolling in with

reassuring repetition.

Yet always something different,

Some new discovery

A fleeting kingfisher

The splash of a distant seal

The strange bark

of an otter

The hollow call of a raven

Or the high pitched cry

of an eagle.

In ever changing patterns

The river plays with sand and rock

Presenting new challenges

For us

Early morning explorers.

This little world

of natural rhythms and unspoilt beauty

A daily reminder

Of how

The whole world

Should be.


© 1999


Autumn leaves are falling,

Each little death

A hint of winter still to come.

Nature gently dying

In hues of gold and red,

A final splash of glory

Before the monochrome

Of black and white

Sets in.

Fruit lies rotting on the ground,

A feast for sleepy wasps

And angry buzzing flies

Who dance once more

Before the final curtain call.

The gathering birds

Sing restlessly in tree tops

Swayed by threatening winds,

And squirrels run to hide

Their store before the cold

Sets in.

The sun grows distant

The moon draws close.

She gleams through early darkness

And seems to welcome winter

As her season.

The fallen leaves swirl up

And dance through golden days

And morning mists,

Until the frost creeps in

To still those final stirrings

And send the silent earth

To sleep.

© 1999



Is running out


Is a luxury

We don’t have

And still

The people

Sit behind

Great desks

Of procrastination




While the earth



                                                                                                                          © 1999


If only I could capture

That moment of euphoria

When new life first begins

When finally we meet.

A miracle to see new life

Emerging from my body,

Incredible and overwhelming.

I thought I knew you

Through all those months

Of intimate connection,

Life felt through flesh

Limbs felt through skin

Growing and moving inside of me.

And then to meet your gaze

Brand new

Blinking in the light

Searching for me

Seeking comfort from my arms.

Out of my body, into my care.

These brief days

Of perfect happiness

I will remember

And treasure

For ever.




Why do tall men 

always marry 

short women?

Why do I

always push 

when it says pull?

Why does toast 

always fall

butter side down?

Why do teenagers

always know

so much more 

than their parents

despite having lived

only one third as long?

Why does the person 

in customer service

always look at you

as though you are 

the last person in the world

she wants to be faced with

and she would have been 

a brain surgeon but

somebody mean,

probably you,

got in her way.

I suppose

someone knows


But it isn’t me.



More to come!
bottom of page