Poem 13, day 14: I Stood at the Window

I Stood at the Window


The end of the sofa was flattened from my weight

As I leant on the sill, blew smoke into air 

And watched the cloud thin to nothing.

Below they passed, with hands in pockets and faces

Looking forward to a street with a postbox,

A sign cracked with time, a stained white pub

Where they gathered in the doorway, and sat upon the step.

I saw roof tiles slick with damp as evening came

And softened the ending of day.

Footsteps slowed, streetlights shone,

Trees became a shadow, one long shadow

Silhouetting itself against the stamp of night.

The cushion knew the mould, the dip of my toes

As I leant on the sill, stood at the window,

And in the turning of hours from morning through dusk

Watched the smoke clouds thin to nothing.


Poem 12, day 13: The Fight

The Fight

They argued last night,

Long after the others had gone to bed.

It wasn’t supposed to be that like.

Earlier they’d been happy,

Laughed at the word said at the same time,

Shared thoughts before they were said.

He’d kissed her cheek, and, for a while,

The conversation was a tune played by both.

But, later, even with sleep about to call,

There it was, the misplaced comment,

The reaction fired from that confused place;

The smoky heat between them burnt

And blinded, for the time being, amidst the fog,

It was lost; everything, lost.

Poem 11, day 12: Reminder



The footsteps from then remain,

Hidden beneath weathered stone,

The stamp of new,

Concrete sealed by grey.

Still, they were there.

Like a name etched in bark

Of a long fallen tree,

The cool grip of a door handle

Gripped in a palm.

We made our mark.

Stood bare-limbed on the corner

By the red brick wall,

Flicked the switch of the lamp 

With the missing bulb,

Touched each other in the dark

While we knew they slept;

Felt the risk of a game gone wrong.

It was only the start.

Nine o’clock came and then twelve o’clock passed.

The liquid sunk in the glass.

The pull of the curtains ceased the outside,

The winner became less clear.

Day by day the mould of the mattress

Gained the huddled form of two.

Every turn at the bend, each swerve of the tyre,

Added miles that can’t be erased.

Now, sometimes, we again walk those paths,

Only forget to glance

At the window, 

Where we began.


Poem 10, day 11: Young



I watch his eyes as they fix on the screen,

A gaze interrupted by unnoticed blinks sweeping lids

As they have done for years.


Hard to imagine, now, his face,

Smooth as a bowl, before time carved each memory

In the autumn of skin.


I wonder at those years, those times,

As his hands clasp together, as if cradled in his palms is

A mind, caught in youth. 








Connecting with the world….

Since becoming an active user of twitter less than two weeks ago, I’ve been overwhelmed not only by the  messages of support I’ve received but also knowing that there are people from all over the world who will take the time to read my work. It would seem that social media really is a way to connect with like-minded people who share the same love of poetry and fiction, indeed writing of all kinds that I do and which otherwise wouldn’t have been possible. A writers world doesn’t always have to be a lonely one.

Here are some blogs that I’ve come across and that are worth taking a look at-









Keep writing!



Poem 9, day 10: The Walk

The Walk


She dances in the wind on jarred rocks

Too rough for feet.

The land stretches

Muddied arms, swollen mounds,

As I stand on the peak

And watch;

The gentle shake of a foal in a faraway field,

The wave of the wool caught fast in the post.

Yet I taste not the air of a heavy sky close;

I feel not the breeze caught in her bark,

I’m there- where it’s warm, where we’re safe, where it’s dark,

Where my mind isn’t one,

And your body’s not far.


Poem 8, day 9: The Gambler

The Gambler


I saw the mask again, I’ve not seen it in a while.

A feigned ignorance on my part,

For I know, it never truly leaves.

Stone. Hard. Distant.

Where does it go, the warm body I hold?

Lost are the eyelids I kiss, the freckles I count,

The shared mug replaced,

By vacant words that I nudge with the truth;

Push, kick, spit at until they crumble.

They lie on the floor, these words;

Bare, open, obvious, yet you grasp at the shards

That will continue to cut until it’s too late,

For the mask to ever be removed.