Cynara’s substitute

Though he has tasted fallen fruit and knows it’s sweet, Here lain, the blemishes are all that he can see.

Summer’s End

The east wind, shrouded in a cloak of sighs, curls through the village alleys, along the harbourside . . .


I pause at the window to watch the rain falling loudly, alarmingly, as if a small monsoon had lost its way.

Little waves

They are, I think, the last touches I shall know of an ocean that has drawn its tide away from me.

Passing storms

If only, she said, I had kissed him one second longer, or for one second less.

The Painter

There’s more in sea than land, she says, and yet still more in clouded skies.


The only right response to the paradox of life . . .

The boat

I held my boat against the flow Because I thought I saw an ethereal place above the riverbank

For Coco

Siren of the internet, she stretches on a WordPress rock .

Song for 2020

In the shops and public spaces the people all walk with your sign on their faces . . .


I’ve squeezed the lemon – tart fruit that I inherited, And keynote of the life that I have led.