If only…

Mummy, what do poets do?
Can they dance, like me and you?
Do they have to go to school,
Or are their brains already full?
The teacher says they’re really clever
Cos they never ever ever
Have to follow any rule
I think being a poet’s cool!


till death us do part

Sparkling tiles, a polished floor,
like her dreams, before they shattered.
Soon she trembled by the door,
her hopes crouched, bruised and battered.

She gave her keys, he cut her locks.
She gained a husband, lost a friend.
Another marriage on the rocks –
in the beginning was the end.

Marriage has become a pestle,
grinding love into a dust.
She longs to rest but she must wrestle
to survive because she must.

And so she fights the fighter, won’t give in,
for she is made of stronger stuff.
She steers her own way, won’t be driven.
She’s a diamond in the rough.


It’s never a good thing to lie…



Four o’clock in the morning,
he lies awake and cries.
Today he lost his one true love
in a river of his lies.
Her arms reached up like branches
clutching at the sun.
He watched her from the river bank,
not knowing what he’d done.
The sun fell down this morning
as he watched his lover drown.
She’d gone and left him high and dry,
the world turned upside down.

Creative Process

I wrote this on the train from Dumbarton to Glasgow last month.

A poet abroad

Like sticky notes upon the sea,
a ragged hill, a leafless tree –
and on the desk that was the land,
a poet’s path wound carelessly.
Along this path her words lay scattered,

tiny seeds for birds that chattered.
Then came the rain like babies’ feet
and on the seeds it pitter pattered.

Days and nights passed, years of sowing
words like treasures overflowing –
but even magpies kept their distance
and nothing on the path was growing.
Then came a rustling in the trees,
the seeds were carried on the breeze.
They sprouted in far distant lands:
South Africa, Ukraine, Belize.

Like sticky notes unstuck, the landscape fluttered
into life, old rivers splashed and spluttered.
And so the poet’s work was done –
a heart was free, a desk uncluttered.
Like sticky notes upon the sea,
a ragged hill, a leafless tree.
And on the desk that is the land,
a poet’s path winds endlessly.

Links between art and poetry

IMG_5543This is not news. I’m just forever impressed by the synergy between art and poetry. Drawing and painting require keen observation, looking beyond what you think you see and perceiving the¬†shapes and colour of the everyday world. When I am in drawing mode, I am constantly surprised by what I discover when I really look at something closely, beyond the point when I think I know what I’m looking at. And it’s exactly the same experience when I write poetry. Images ¬†connect like magnets to create strange and unexpected verbal sculptures.

Here’s a drawing of an eye for your amusement! I know it’s not perfect but I’m working on it. Baby steps…!