I watch

your sketchbook of the year


head bent, your golden hair

beneath the budding willow


after the blitz

and rationing

Grandma’s chocolate violets

still wrapped in cellophane

when she died


be open

to whatever may be…

a host of snowdrops

airing their wings

in the morning sun


being human

I see spring flowers

paling as they bloom…


the face of morning


a buttercup

under the chin of morning…


lay me down

in the arms of spring


will today’s clean sheet

bring poems or paper-cuts?..

no matter, love

at least it’s ours

this nick of time


how will you know

I am thinking of you?..

it is written

in green on the petals

of every snowdrop

(For Paul Smith)


the slant of rain

through budding lilacs…

the ink not yet dry

another poem

waits to bloom



by wild imaginings

the cat chases her tail

and I make a wish

on the ghost of a star


strangely light-hearted

she writes “I don’t love you”

on a helium balloon

and lets it




 you and I

on either side of the pond

deep in reflection…

the tremors from a gnat’s wing

and then, the stillness



a flock of starlings fades

into grey distance,

all that remains

of the five lines I dreamed


we gather poems

from the petals of moments…

how we’ll make

the garden wild with poppies

and cornflowers


the faintest blush

to the pure white hyacinth –

for our children

even first love

has lost its innocence




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