Haiku Triptych

I felt led to write a Haiku Triptych this morning as it feels decidedly cooler these last few days. For me there is sadness yet also an inner glow of contentment as the ‘bigness’ of life has chance to settle for a while and the Spirit to revive.

Sunday After Summer

My grieving over loss
takes me by surprise again.
Summer’s brief visit.


Sunday Before September

Darkness drawing in
fireside chats, warm socks and tea.
Soon, hibernation.


Sunday Reflecting

Gregarious days
of light, stand back for stillness.
Contemplation comes.

Brilliance of Blue

Brilliance of Blue

There is a little piece of sky
falling in my heart,
…. it falls right into my hands.
I say to sky:
“Sky, why are you so blue?”
Sky replies:
“I am blue because I am your enriched
creative expression. I fell into your hands
as a gift from your heart……
I am your voice, your stroke of the brush,
the architect of your words….
I am fuel for your creation; use me.”
I look back at sky and see rainclouds gathering.
“And what are these clouds about you in my hands?”
asked I….
“They are the tears in me who have gathered
like a reservoir of grief which pour upon your life.”
“Ah” say I,
“I know this all too well as the ground is too wet
for me feet to feel safe upon it…… so I stare down
instead of looking up at you and your brilliance of Blue.”

“Precisely” says sky. “Precisely that.”


This Glorious New Day


This Glorious New Day

Trees, street lamp, bracken
filled the space across the road
till Sunday’s flash winds whipped them up
and threw them down like violated rag dolls….
Now rising sunlight sears through windows,
bakes red roof tiles, warms wildly piqued wasps
and I notice – my heart is thankful
for I have this glorious new day.


Without You RW

Mrs Doubtfire - Robin Williams

Mrs Doubtfire – Robin Williams

Without you
leaves will no longer chuckle in Silver Birches,
clouds shall no longer roll, but stay static in time,
bubbles in prosecco shall all burst simultaneously,
hyenas shall silence their laughter……
And me? I shall not not weep,
Robin Williams.
for you, you gloriously gifted and brilliant man,
will be in every place in this challenging world,
healing brokenness within all, with your spirit,
playing a movie reel in the heads and hearts of all who Love you.
This world shall never doubt the fire in you dear man – never….
We Loved you then, we Love you now…..

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.” – John Keating, Dead Poets Society (1989)




Sleep, the friend,
pulling up beads of
deep unconsciousness.
Where is life giving oxygen
in the swirl of darkness?
Tree Spirit breathes in,
yet I am lacking….
Perhaps I fly the planet
in the night – O2 isn’t needed
when soaring, bodiless.

Written from Papworth Hospital where I am for an overnight stay on a sleep study. From the window next to me I can see a Silver Birch and in it is a face….

Summer Madness

I wanted to get so much done,
yet heat and tiredness
find me drowning now.
Clock beats tick monotonously
as a drowsy sunstream
carves deeply in me,
this oh so familiar, languid lethargy.
The flies are bad this year,
yet there is hope here in my tiny garden
where humming bees petal dance silently
in and out of flower heads
dripping with yellowed pollen.
I shall not complain here on this August day
of Nature’s generosity,
for all too soon the skies will darken,
the trees will starkly stand
against the bitter elements of a January freeze.
My feet will, upon this cottage floor,
become purpled with cold and wizened too
if they are as bare then as they are today.
Then, there will be no plumped up toes
with warmed flesh to run over the beloved’s
body in this naked heat……


Bales in the Lowlands

Bales in the Lowlands

Bales in the Lowlands


Today they come,
like many other things, these bales
round, oblong, plastic casings all unfamiliar too,
with the movement of time as the past is lost.

When I was young,
they were just small, string tied,
scattered like giant wheetabix blocks
across a close cropped field.

Yet now, like Grenadier Guards,
they are stacked as neat
as they could possibly be,
potent in the blazing sun.

The haystacks back then,
fifty years ago, were tall.
So tall that children would feel like climbing,
building forts and giggling as they hid.

One warm year, when adults eyes were turned,
a tunnel found, stretching from one side to another,
held a curiosity like none before…..
old rags and something shiney lay half way along…

One by one each kiddie crawled
like little beasties,
gasping and scurrying as fast as hands
and scratched up knees could speed.

A chubby girl held back,
holding breath, scared….
Bloodied dead rat, massive knife to kill
and rags – old rags maybe of the vagabond…..

The girl – bigger than the rest,
knew the stack could fall,
crushing, smothering – pressing her, them, all,
into the rags, decaying rat and murderer’s rust clad dagger.

The space squeezed inwards.
Her ribs strangled her breath,
the heat cooked her mind and choked her voice until,
sweating like woman in labour,
she tumbled out into the day, shocked…..
alive not dead like the silenced rat.

That day, she grew up….. just a little