Thursday 30 April 2020


It is the most romantic thing,
the story of a wedding ring
that now I know off by rote -
a happily ever after quote.

His elaborate tales that glorify
the origins of my brother and I,
and the onward genetic multiplication
that began with mutual adulation.

Oh how her appearance brings such thrills
when she enters with arms full of daffodils.
And there's a moist softness in his eyes
as he watches her cross the room and sighs.

"Can you picture," he whispers with a wink,
"a letter written in purple ink
from an unknown author, asking to meet?
Well I'll tell you this, my heart skipped a beat!

Incredulous, I so wanted to believe
but didn't want to appear naïve,
and so I nearly gave it a miss.
Imagine if I had! Remember this -

don't be bashful and afraid of stigma
when fate presents an intriguing enigma,
but grasp it with both hands and
forget even trying to understand,

because who knows what joys untold
may well be waiting to unfold.
Some experiences compare with no other,
for instance take a look at your mother.

Just behold that beautiful face
and for a moment the notion embrace
all that I could have thrown away
if scepticism had won the day!"

Friday 24 April 2020


For Paul Gedzyk...

There is this memory of two wheels
churning up a spray of mud
high into the Boxing Day air.
Then the blue blur of your helmet

as you enter then leave my vision
in an instant, grappling with thin air
while your bike performs elaborate somersaults
in the opposite direction.

My heart is pounding with dread
as I approach the scene, my head
full of images of your broken bloodied body.
But you are fine...this time,

just resemble some grotesque mud monster
rising up out of the ground, as the crowd
rush to your aid. Trembling, I head to the pub
for a double brandy...

Friday 17 April 2020


I awoke with a frown
to a birthday in lockdown -
was it worth celebration
in such isolated location?

But then I thought I would try
to somehow rectify
this strange situation
of mass trepidation

by banishing self-pity
and creating a pretty
dinner for one,
wholly homespun.

Well, I mean to say,
it matters not today
that I'm cut off from friends
for my emotion transcends

such trivial needs,
when my heart bleeds
for all those who've lost
loved ones at such cost

of broken heart
and life torn apart,
while my loved ones remain
so I'll see them again

when all this is over
and we're once more in clover.
Oh how grateful I'll be
then if fate has spared me!

My birthday lunch 😊😊

Friday 10 April 2020


Here in my kitchen, preparing the chicken for dinner
- clearing the body cavity of giblets - my thoughts
are with my husband in his autopsy room,
where he's carefully dissecting the recently deceased.

Back home, he will recount vividly the gory details:
the deconstruction, the blood - diminishing my appetite,
while he dines with ravenous gusto!

I picture him in his green scrubs and latex gloves,
handling his scalpel with deft precision
as he carves and excises with cold detachment.

I, too, will slice into the chicken's dead flesh
through skin and muscle to bone,
until nausea characteristically overcomes me.
In all but this, our occupations are similarly matched.

But from then on, the similarity ends: his subject
died from a stroke, whereas mine was intentionally slaughtered.
Blades carve them both, but the Soul consequences differ.
His conscience is clear, but can the same be said of mine?

The roasted chicken is steaming on the table -
it somehow reminds me of a stillborn baby...
and Karma descends heavily on my head.

Friday 3 April 2020


There is this mountain,
a gigantic peak in my head.

It's summit is often concealed by dense cloud
that relentlessly seeks to devour it.

Halfway up
there is a moss covered ledge

where I sit alone
in all weathers, all seasons -

a ritual of defiance
against bleak melancholy.

I forged you from the elements.
I breathed life into cold stone

that I knew would never return my love.
I took your indifference,

your cold rejection,
and cast it into the raging winds

like a restless spirit -
the howling, a Banshee in the dark.

I am all delusion,
all granite.

Like alpine heather in the wind,
I'm victim of my own resilience:

dying of a battered heart,
yet disgustingly, sickeningly, immortal.