Homecoming . . .And swings. Please let there be swings. Let there be picnics. And hiding places when life is hard and the only one you can face is your tree. . .
Oh How I Wish Oh how I wish I could write about my long life and when a sprite young thing with my life ahead and now behind
My Colour Travelling the Trans-Siberian Railway for several days, I watched with glee as the vast forest of my colour changed shapes and sizes.
On Connection Arriving very poor in Australia, I did not have enough funds to send letters to keep in touch, and even back then I felt sad about it. So I promised myself, whenever possible I will keep in touch, and I do.
On Being Invisible As a Pisces I love the water. The possibility of swimming with sharks or dolphins as one of them and not as my real self has a kind of special appeal...
A Memory Ye Olde George Inn. This 11th, 13th and 15th century pub in the village of Ickleford, Hertfordshire has so many tales to share.
From My Window From my window / I survey the storm outside / trees with hula hooping branches / umbrellas sailing on a sea of rain
The Muslin Dress Dance I was struck dumb. I was so angry I had no words, our usual kids' phrase, "that's not fair" as totally inadequate as waving a hankie to stop a bull.
Camino Cold air leaving the cafe of warm, friendly women who were tired of endless pilgrims at the end of the season Their coffee is warm and good and cake homemade and fresh The road is not too busy
Poem on a Picture ("The Raging Sea" by Laura Fishman, from her climate change collection) The sea is weeping ice Sky white with horror Polar bear drowning As land and water Disappear into each other Creeping fingers of chaos Grotesque teardrops Melting into Monsters Of Destruction
Sweet Memories There is a doorway, arched at the top, not too high, brown and wooden, plain, solid, simple, unadorned, set into a whitewashed wall, thick and old. The key is of heavy iron, beautifully
On Reading My Diaries 1973-4 To hold who I was And who I am now And how the one became the other My arms are not wide enough I am overwhelmed Defeated by my own contradictions To witness
FOR MY FUNERAL Thank you for coming to see me off Thank you, on this one final occasion For putting together all the different bits of me Which you have variously known As my body and
BY THE SWING It is really noisy here The birds squabbling over dangling fruit With their different voices Squawks, chitters, tweets, clicks A cock crowing haughtily When he can be bothered And a dog barking In
Meeting at the Brook It is the blinking of a firefly's light. It is the x that marks the spot on the treasure map that says, dig here. It is the fairy in the woods signaling, follow me.
The Miller’s Wife or The Ghost I Loved © Short story Conversation with a ghost. Most of my stories are taken from the memories and souvenirs of my life; writing a fantasy about a Conversation with a Ghost was therefore a refreshing change and within no time I let the Ghost take me by the hand and lead me into the past… but whose past?
Rock, Sky, Water Up the hill, through the field gate and then down the slope. We are lost in the country behind wild hedges, total freedom from roads or eyes.
Casket Cardboard, wood or concrete What do I care about my body Once I am dead? I try to accept death with equanimity With reasonings I have had all my life to get used
Moon on Water Caught unaware in a turbulent fog of activity By a stillness and beauty Demanding attention The moon’s shining crescent Casting three stars of light To point in line From the black uneven
On Being 30 Baby at my breast I fall into his eyes Utterly in love With this unformed creature This stranger who arrived Needing me to nurture him Into the future The room is full of
Motorbike Here goes nothing: I’d like to see nothing going anywhere, like a bit of emptiness in motion. That’s what you said to me in the feathery midnight stillness ruffled by the
