Saturday, 14 May 2011


The day I shouted at the wind

I flew – my voice – away

and air contorted with the sound

of breath in desperate play.

I didn’t hear it echo round

where congregations pray;

perhaps it will return, rebound,

on judgment day.

A syllable or two,

a vowel,

a consonant or two,

a howl;

a new expression as a ring

into the void, no-thing.

Tuesday, 10 May 2011

Bluebells in Cumbria

The last day of April can be cruel,

lush-early the bluebells are fading.

Spring’s fervent these days but little flags

stand and wave in the wind, their last stand.

Can you tinkle the river,

can you timbre a blackbird,

can you stock-still a shiver,

will your bell soon be heard?

Hot – as if in Summer,

a field of bluebells shimmers

- this has been their time –

and together they have competed and won

for bee and butterfly, spider, the sun

warmed up their faces - bowed out - by the moon.