Margaret's hands are small and white they will never hug her mother or feel a lovers hand squeeze hers never play piano like her sister Maud or wear a wedding ring not any of these things Margaret's hands are marble still each dove at rest upon her chest
At the corner where the year turns Autumn’s carefree child dressed in shades of rebellious scarlet whistles as he walks full into Winter a vicious hungry old man who strips him bare naked and cold before he strolls away to find the waiting arms of spring she wraps him in a warm embrace bestowing kisses sweet enough to melt his cruel and icy heart and leaves to find the Summer bearing gifts of fruit with which to make the heady wine of Autumn
Spring you called, how kind I see you’ve settled your wandering mind you brought a leaf for every tree and flowers for every buzzing bee sit a while we’ll have some tea I made a cake so I hope you’ll stay if not, can you visit another day
We were given a lovely world but we trampled it and mashed it beat it up and trashed it, nobody else to blame we did it to ourselves and it's such a ****** shame, we can't walk away, we can't say I quit we made this awful mess now we have to live in it
In darkness when fear of fear itself and the unknown ensures that certainty and other showier birds have flown an unremarkable bird of no particular renown will sing to you, her feathers plain and brown no matter how hard the road, or the steep the stair nothing is ever hopeless as long as I am there
The waving wheat in Picot’s field is burned to yellow sand, a harvest tide of buttered rain salutes the combine’s hand, one last defiant gesture before the cut and fall, bowing at the reaper, who comes to scythe us all
Design me a coat for the seasons remember as you sew to add vents in the sleeves filled with crisp Autumn leaves and to let Springtime breezes blow why not add a long Summer as that is in style this year please try to shorten the Winter it is looking a bit severe
Falling light on springtime leaves shadowed fingers stroke the breeze sunlit table, awning up proper tea in a china cup supper cooking down the road a neighbours grass efficiently mowed cat on a cushion flicks an ear rock doves calling somewhere near new clad branches swing and sway peace at the end of a busy day
Oh, sea of tranquility, we came, but we could not swim, so we claimed you with a flag and put a towel down for the race, then we left our grubby footprints across your perfect face
They applauded the president those with no hands stamped their feet those with no feet clapped their hands, and the president smiled his crocodile smile because he hadn't fought for his country and he still had hands and feet but he had no heart not even a painted purple one!
Music is a joy more pure in every fluted ringing note than we could ever hope to find forgetting all our own desire on ever soaring wings of smoke and fire it leaves the petty cares of man behind and reaches out for something higher
I wrote this on the death of a musician who brought joy to millions-he suffered huge amounts of prejudice throughout his extremely long life. He was 97 years old.
At seven I realised I could do something that the other kids couldn't. As the middle child and the duffer in a seriously sporty family I made words my own.
Ploughed fields stark after rain standing proud, brown and plain, this year's crop will be planted soon on corrugated paper in the steamy water vapour of a spring afternoon
*Welsh for tractor
I love the spring-ploughed fields always remind me of corrugated paper
The sound of busy wings in flight sweet song in mellow April light carried on an early breeze which shakes the limbs of new leaved trees, pleasure after winter’s sting a simple yet essential thing we could not start the season without the birds in spring
The crown of thoughts that once did sit upon my weary head is gone, fading gently into the distance only the impression remains vague marks of what I used to be the other much more consequential me
Someone let her out She slipped away and never quite came back although she had a key each time she went I used to find she left a bit of me behind
What is left is a badly knitted gift A thing unravelled Full of holes is what you get to see The tattered remnants of the shrinking woman that was me!
I have an aunt with dementia-it really is a terrible drifting away