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mother holding little baby on travel by planeThe child’s eyes filled with tears

The journey was too long,

Grandparents were a distant memory.

Home was  a dream of Father Christmas or the Easter Bunny.

Boarding was a bad word, written for business class who needed  to connect.


Her hands were red; sanitized, rubbed raw with worry.


Return, they said, it will work out.

He is only overworked.

The ring on her hand caught the light


The gold  clung to her finger.

Return flight;

Turbulence is a result of take off;

Then there is stability.


Her body relaxes

And belts removed.

A tiny head asleep on her chest




antique-blank-camera-269810The books are too many;

I falter under their weight.

Pleading expectation;

Firm covers crave bending.


A lingering glance.

I must abstain.

Pulled too far;

Duty’s call too loud.

What I dream;

Packed tightly

Into boxes;

Saved for later.

Until my unknown debt

Has been paid.

Brimble Cottage

IMG_1623Tucked away on Dartmoor;

Vibrant life among the ancient stones.


Life building on the past;

Romantic decay.


Reprieve from a merciless pace

Of automatic messages.

The flashing motto,


Cemented to every high-rise.


The cock crows the hour.

The ponies make their daily pilgrimage

Along the narrow hedgerow.


Honeysuckle morning;

Lavender purple.

The bees explore.

Gold encrusted legs

Fit for a queen.


Stone cross along the roadway

Cannot weather a millennia

Slowly melting into a monolith.


A father’s nuptial speech

For his golden-haired daughter.

Attentive and authentic;

Like the love that binds them.


Four generations share

Elusive time.

The silence,

As much as the conversation,

Will strengthen

The family.



In a courtyard.

I write,

As the equine God observes.







Under the  blankets

I discovered love.

Your touch felt like

The way the bass feelsImage result for fireworks AND BLankets

In that song.


Leather and sweat,

Sunscreen on a summer’s day,


The next move on a pinball game.


Cotton candy and butter.

The circular journey on the merry go round.


It was ten

When the fireworks started;

Magic in the sky

Dancing like a witches spell.

We lay

Sunburnt, spent,

Wanting more.



The Great War

Image result for 1913 womanHands folded


Nails dig into skin.

Corset bound.





Enough to keep alive.

The truseau chest;

Life’s blood,

Her reason for being.

Started at ten;

Finished at eighteen.

Ready for the


Linen and

Embroidered bedsheets.

Victorian propriety

Her only weapon

Against the

Coming storm;



Damn the War.




poseidon-2504490_1280Liquid light dances in the air.


The marble man

Holds his trident.

Pink dress with lace.

Auburn hair.

Simple hat to hold

The sun at bay.

She asks

Her mother for a coin.

Following the path of

Her ancestors

To a sacred source.

Seeking favour.

Chubby hands

Drop the copper penny;

An offering to

A foreign god.


I doubt when the owner built this place as a luxury hotel he ever pictured it like this. He probably never thought words like "abandoned" "ruined" and "haunted" would describe his Halcyon Hall.The children amble to the roadside

One after the other

United in their reluctance.

Too early

The sun not yet  on the horizon.

Their fall  coats too light

For the cool breath of wind.

Across the road

The old brick house stands dreaming.

The bats slowly return to the attic.

They wait.

For the light along the roadside

The warmth within

The long drive

To a room full of screaming children.



Image result for british galleon in harbourBlood, brine and flesh

I dream

In the belly of the



Ripe and fertile,

Full  of life.

She died in my arms.


The cicadas sin???????????????????????????????g

As the sun

Dips below the treeline.

Even the wolves wait;

Hungry anticipation.

We found a blanket

Hidden in a

Trunk in the attic.

Wine wrapped


Our offering.

In the clearing

We will

Toast the

Mystery of

The dying day.






Her secret place.....The young girl stands at the crossroad.

She arrives every morning with the sun.

The shy farmers nod on their way to the fields.

Their hearts falter when,

Too early they arrive.

The sun not yet touching the horizon.

She is gone before their weary journey home.

Her memory, but a distant childhood dream;

Of the open world and the mystery of love.

For her part she waits for someone

Who lost her way.

Gone too soon

Taking the wrong path.

She will return; Heart weary or wise.

The two are one.


So she waits.

Long enough to feel the sun’s rays ‘

Warm her face.

She must go on;

The day must be survived.

‘Not today,’

The wind whispers;



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