Thursday, 19 July 2018


A video clip of Checo:
a  glimpse into another world
wholly out of reach.

A face idolized: more than mere recording
and not just wishful thinking
or imagination playing tricks.

But, eyes closed, listening to the voice
of an intimate stranger I've come to know -

I'm no longer here at all, but there,
where distance and ocean have ceased to exist.

And it feels like coming home.

Friday, 13 July 2018


A Villanelle..

Guinevere are you for real, or just pure invention?
For time obscures origin and poets embellish lore,
so now we cannot know the truth of your ascension.

Were you Camelot's bone of contention
in those bygone days of yore,
when along with dashing Lancelot you divided Arthur's nation?

Fairest face and golden hair made you centre of attention -
and lifelong obsession of Cornwall's noble Boar.
But still we do not know the truth of your ascension.

Draco Standard flying in great ostentation,
while many secretly denounced you as whore.
Guinevere are you for real, or just pure invention?

Loud the clash of steel at Camlan's invasion.
Your infidelity sparked that fateful bloody war.
Yet still we do not know the truth of your ascension.

Do historians labour under misapprehension,
or did passion destabilize Camelot's core?
Guinevere are you for real, or just pure invention?
For we'll probably never know the truth of your ascension.

Thursday, 14 June 2018


Absence has not erased
the rugged beauty of brooding moorland.
But what else did I expect?

Thirty years between myself and the summit
has intensified obsession, yet eroded boundary walls
and doubled the height of the tree

that now casts a much broader shadow
over imagination's idyll. House walls are crumbling away.
It's no longer as the Earnshaws knew it,

is even more inimical now. The old farmhouse 
in which we once took refuge has fallen victim
to vandals' idle hands

and the Elements' tumultuous battering.
The cries of skylarks seem fainter
than I remember, like an old recording

time-worn and gradually fading into silence.
Buzzards circle prey beneath the summer sky,
and isolation closes in.

Unless a dedicated Bronte fanatic,
you would never venture this far into wilderness
in search of the myth,

nor curse Emily for your aching legs
and the sombre emptiness that envelopes you
with a churlish welcome

that needs no spoken word or printed page
but, instead, appears to issue
straight from Heathcliff's tormented Soul...

I am heading out into the Cornish wilderness tomorrow, so will be taking a few weeks off (as I know from experience that internet connection there is patchy at best)!
So, have a great time until I "see" you all again...:))

Friday, 8 June 2018


Through thicket and forest clearing
I sought the Greenwood Muses
in an effort to ignite creative fuses.
But all I perceived were trees whispering
and in the westerly breeze swaying.

Shafts of sunlight dappled the way:
a winding path between bushes of gorse,
deeply indented with hoof prints of horse.
And the sweetest song of robin and jay
over my senses that day held sway.

Brightness of noon-sun striking
enhanced my subtler senses:
could've sworn I glimpsed through boundary fences
tiny Elves in the tall grass prancing
and rainbow-coloured Faeries dancing.

Was it trick of the light, or second sight?
Either way I was fully transfixed
and suddenly found myself caught betwixt
two worlds and feeling like Snow White
in her elusive realm of fanciful delight.

Well half of me couldn't believe it at all,
while the other half couldn't dismiss
the possibility I'd unwittingly crossed the Abyss
and discovered that place where after all
the Muses held me in utter thrall.

Friday, 1 June 2018


In search of Aiden Moffat

This man eclipses the Greek Gods
and doesn't even have to try.

His voice over the car radio (aah, that accent!)
transmitted to the hyped-up spectators.

His foot to floor, speed increasing,
Mercedes engine screaming in pain.

From where I'm standing, a blue blur -
increasingly surreal, it seems.

Projecting consciousness into those wheels:
a mental passenger, undetectable.

Wow, the exhilaration -
and not from mere speed alone!

His heartbeat merging with my own,
synchronizing with another plane.

Adrenaline pumping, pumping;
stimulating depths wholly unknown.

Now race is finished, all too soon.
But, pumped up, I'm hypnotically driven:

dodging mad crowds and scouring the pits
for Scottish flag - it's blue and white

symbolic of  Laser Tools Racing.
Fighting, fighting, I get to the front -

and here's the proof I'm telling the truth:

And was he there? Oh yes, but I
never got to meet him. Why?

I froze and stood there, overawed
like dumbstruck teen - how sad am I? Lol

     I did, however, manage to take this photo! ;))

Friday, 25 May 2018


She's stolen my man
just because she can.
For me he was the only one,
for her simply a bit of fun.
Turning from pink to green - now red:
a shape-shifting Dragon who'll fill her with dread.
I want to burn her quite to death
with my devouring fiery breath.
But, alas, she hides well out of reach
behind high gates I cannot breach,
while lording it over her willing slaves
in a mansion built on my Ancestor's graves.
Oh yes,
she's the one who has ruined my life.
Now it's her turn to suffer dark strife.

Watching her everywhere she goes.
Gosh how she's keeping me on my toes!
A new lover here, a fresh beau there,
all soon discarded without a care
once they've served their purpose for her -
endless supplies of diamonds and fur.
Oh what a thoroughly self-centred bitch
whose life runs smoothly without a hitch.
Well I vow here and now I'll be the last one.
Soon she'll find her power undone.

So returning to my cave beneath Cheddar Gorge,
I begin a silver amulet to forge.
A five-pointed star within a band,
engraved with a language she won't understand.
I pass it through Earth, Air and Water
and then through Fire for this devil's daughter.
Now while gazing deep into darkened mirror,
I bring her image nearer and clearer
until that supercilious face
is fully defined in this magical space.
And with potent herbs I bind her here
until the consequences are clear
of who she's become and what she's done.
The mirror ripples. It has begun...

A week later she passes me by
as if in a trance, her clothes all awry.
Her boys, I hear, have run for the hills
and the only things keeping her sane are pills.
Her beauty has faded in record time
so none now desire her: oh such a crime
that this should happen to a babe like me!
is all she can think. Still she cannot see
that Universal Laws can never be cheated
and all those who try will be defeated.

So unconditional love I send.
Oh it's hard to do, but I have to bend,
or else I'll become as sad as she
then neither of our Souls will ever be free.
So forgiving all the pain she's inflicted,
I probe her mind - she's been addicted
to ego's dictates that she couldn't resist:
unless centre of attention, she couldn't exist.
So I cast a spell to clarify her mind
and help her to deep within herself find
a better path to true self-worth
without having to other's weaknesses unearth.
All those husbands and lovers she's stolen away,
well it's come back to haunt her upon this day.
She's been living in fear of single males -
oh horror of horrors, what if it fails
and she be discarded for someone else...
is this beginning to ring any bells?
Well isn't this what she's inflicted on us?
Such hypocrisy is preposterous!

Oh awareness just dawned - I feel it all.
So now her future is solely her call...😉😉

Friday, 18 May 2018


On R.V. roof with sun and rain
worked into the dulling aluminium,
a black frog lay in the groove

motionless as a rubber toy; deceased
and stiff as wood, one leg
broken and half missing. Remaining

tiny toes tear-jerking somehow.
Into my heart I took him.
His little sunken eyes

no longer moist and darting
absorbed instead of reflecting light;
a piece of paper I burnt once

looked a lot like that.
Pollen dulled his back to ochre
the way mold encrusts a stale cheese.

Yet his belly retained it's luminosity
away from U.V. rays;
the life once dwelling there

in each silvery body scale: like
candle flame observed through a moonstone.
And I saw thread-like rents there

in the swollen dark bruise
where beak or talon had sliced
painfully into tender flesh.

So sad. It hurt to look.
Slaughtered for what? Not even
sustenance for the marauding hawk.