Traditional Christmas.

Photo by the Creative Exchange, Unsplash

Fay wielded the hoover with feverish pace,
fanatical zeal perspired on her face.
She stabbed at the needles that littered the floor,
the Christmas tree dropping as never before.
The pudding was steaming, the sprouts set to boil,
the list was just endless of her Christmas toil.
She swigged from the sherry she’d hid on the shelf,
turned the dial up to max, and vacuumed herself.


Savouring the Ghost Orchid.

The Herefordshire Ghost Orchid, 2009

When will this moment cease to be?
When will this feeling of completeness undo
and that tie of all that makes it right
begin to unravel?

Does the knowing tighten my hold,
or the foresight of loss weaken my grip?
This sense of craxis is like a dramatic irony of sorts,
not seen by an audience, but by my inner eye.

As joy is tempered with foreboding,
I think of the ghost orchid –
extinct beauty, now returned
as circumstance revives its life.

Linda at d’Verse Poets has offered up the last d’Verse prompt for 2021 and introduced us to The dictionary of obscure sorrows by John Koenig. See the link for a more detailed explanation about the book (

I have chosen the word ‘Craxis: the unease of knowing how quickly your circumstances could change on you- that no matter how carefully you shape your life into what you want it to be, the whole thing could be overturned in an instant.’

For your information, the Ghost Orchid is a particularly rare plant, once thought to be extinct in the UK. More details about it can be found at:

Star gazing

man riding horse statue near trees during daytime
Photo by Hans-Peter Traunig, Unsplash.

Breath melts the frozen crystals on the pane,
darkness within aiding light without,
and I see you glitter like tinsel and race
through depths of sumptuous black,
rearing your head, chasing bears,
scattering stars,
kicking up nebulae,
snorting out clouds of galaxies,
proving life.

Mish was on duty at the d’verse poets pub last night, ( inviting us to write a Quadrille which includes a version of the word ‘tinsel’. This is a revised and reduced version of a poem I wrote recently about Pegasus, prompted by an image on Visual Verse. (Weirdly, I have just realised that Pegasus also features in my previous post!)

Flying or Falling.

Are you riding Pegasus across the impenetrable depths of a haunting black?
Are you a dancer, dust-scuffing your soft points across the boards, your audience enthralled?
Or have you left that realm of long ago, when dreams wrapped soft around you?

Do you feel the cold wet slabs beneath your bare feet, the dig of roughened wood?
Are you flying or falling as you feel a rushing beat absorb you into what you long for?
Are those angel’s wings you hear, as you feel the cold air rushing across your face?

Carrie at The Sunday Muse Blogspot ( has given us another wonderful prompt with this image. Visit the site to read the fabulous responses from the Sunday Muse Blogspot community.

An impression, of sorts.

beige liquid illustration
Image by Pawel Czerwinski, Unsplash.

There I go. Scritch, scratch.
Can anyone else hear the
faint jots and scraps
that scrabble through my head?
When I am dead,
will the pathologist see
a muddle of words and lines,
started, forgotten,
or discarded,
that etched their way
into the soft tissue of my brain.
A pattern of rivulets
amongst the moist and grey
of my frontal lobe,
carrying notions and thoughts
along a journey through my cortex,
leaving an impression,
of sorts.

It’s the Season

angel topiary lights
Photo by Jamie Davies, Unsplash

Today nostalgia is wearing
an eclectic little mix of pagan rites
and more recently learnt traditions,
wrapped neatly in paper
and tied with shiny ribbon.

Fantastical stories weave through the air,
riding the night sky,
insisting on rewards in a world
where good and bad swap crowns
and promises are lies that are best kept hidden.

The definition of peace is no longer silent–
it shouts and pushes
and would happily run you over
should you try to cross the road
to a gentler time when thought was given.

Charity rummages around the tree,
looking for a conscience to unwrap,
knowing the bow will be tied looser
at this time of year.
Charity has never understood the reason.

And what about hope?
It clears its throat and whispers
find me a megaphone.
But we think we know what we want,
So, oblivious and deaf, we carry on.

The Christmas spirit has yet to visit me, so if you don’t want to read a bah humbug poem look away now! (Sorry).

A Temporary Dismantling.

brown cardboard boxes on brown wooden table
Photo by Michal Balog, Unsplash

Plates wrapped, pans boxed,
the knickknackery of individual life
wedged between the bread board
and the kettle.

A life once expanding, now retracting,
squashed into a spare space,
that didn’t know it was spare
until now.

At best frozen, at worst regressing,
lives no longer fit the
snug hollow of our plans.
We feel bruised.

So we are unpicked,
bones clacking in a land of limbo,
waiting to be reformed.

Holding onto the silver bear.

person touching body of water and creating ripples
Photo by Nick Moore at Unsplash.

We could not take home the lake,
laid patient like a silvery bear,
stretched wide,
breathing gently,
with the December wind
blowing ripples into its short hairs.

We have tried to hold the soft crunch
of unimaginable depth and softness
in our heads,
and force our arms to still feel
the tall embrace of
red skin and giants’ shade.

In the hollows of our hands,
lines of love and death deepen.
Whispers and thoughts
shimmer their fingers,
unravelling time,
promising memories.

This morning we walked around a familiar garden and wooded parkland – we have walked here so many times over the years and still are struck by its beauty.