Here is a selection of my poetry for February.




As winter slowly lost its grip,

at dusk each day, from ivied tree,

he sang of spring and of his love

to all the listening robin world.


As I wash dishes at the sink,

my window frames a tender scene —

a female robin, round with eggs,

waits patiently for his return.


Their courtship started with his song

and now he brings her gifts of seed

beneath their hidden mossy nest

in ivied tree where he still sings.


When apple blossom fills that tree

I'll look out for this robin's young —

so speckled, like young nightingales —

and watch him feed them one by one.



Why did you let the sloth of age take hold,

when all you’d planned was just a little rest?

While letting lunch go down with your eyes closed,

sloth hugged you, comatose, in three toed grip.


Sloth’s onset is ennui and feeling tired –

it seeks out anyone with less to do,

praying on the work-shy and retired,

their simplest task seems harder to conclude.


Pernicious sloth ingratiates itself :

attractive to both young and old alike,

it takes the drive from young dynamic men

and slim girls end up fat and on the shelf.


Those legions who just watch the world go by -

living a lie – manage to cope. Shirkers, loafers, losers,

layabouts – fishermen without a hook –

are happy enough to give sloth a try.


Poets, painters and assorted thinkers

can live in disarray just for their art;

somehow the everyday does not intrude –

while others cook and clean sloth has them blinkered :


I’ll sleep on it,” they say to all things new…

But is sloth’s route the way you want to take?

It infiltrates like some unseen disease –

disables, brings you down like Asian Flu.


And, in no time, you find your life has slowed

to the flicker of a Day Room’s TV screen;

with others, dozing fitfully in chairs,

you wait to take the ride down Churchyard Road.



All around dust slowly settles

beneath a road sign marking BENDS;

on the verge, a broken puppet,

a buckled wheel still slowly spins.


On the verge a broken puppet

beneath the road sign marking BENDS,

letters spilling from his satchel —

a paper trail abruptly ends.


Round the daisies oil is seeping,

the sunlight gleams from twisted chrome;

paper trail leads to the hedgerow

from where his satchelled letters spill.


A dark stain already thickens —

around the daisies blood seeps in;

in the silence birds start singing,

the sunlight gleams from twisted chrome.


Darkening stain already thickens,

a buckled wheel still slowly spins;

from the silence birds are singing

beneath a road sign marking BENDS.



The house stood on a lovely spot

with valley views across the stream

a place that he named Camelot.


It was decrepit, tumbledown –

a sure sign of the owner’s age –

yet every year the garden bloomed.


After the old man moved away

the gates were chained, house boarded up,

so brambles thrived and nettles grew.


Last autumn, heavy plant moved in

to knock down walls and clear the site –

thin rubble where the house had been.


This spring, while horses grazed close by,

daffodils bloom where old man toiled…

and proves old gardens never die.



It’s over fifty years I’ve sent my love

And, in this verse, I send my love again

For we are still a fit, like hand and glove,

As surely as these words run from my pen.

I’ve sent the most elaborate of cards,

Though many have been plain and simple too;

the choice of card is never really hard…

it’s finding fresh ways to say “I love you.”

I’ve written verse of many different kinds,

With birds and flowers, even dancing hares,

Each image is to help you keep in mind

The kind of closeness that I know we share –

I hope that this will help roll back the years

With memories and love and happy tears.



Uncertain that my memory serves me well —

my nose pressed to the window of the past

for images that flicker like old film

with action blurred and features lost to chance.


Like sound heard at the bottom of a pool

or distant tones that echo underground,

it seems your message now falls on deaf ears

as I strain hard to catch the words you owned.


I hold your ring with keepsakes from the past —

mementoes of the times and life we shared,

without your essence they can never spark

but memories persist though you're not there.


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