Not a fair fight.

Photo by Annie Spratt, Unsplash.

There once was here, a copse of trees,
a living, breathing canopy.
Its roots held firm from year to year,
it fed the birds it housed the bees
and sweetened air for us to breathe.
A copse of trees, there once was here.

It couldn’t run, could not escape
from all the pillage and the rape.
Its roots were useless ‘gainst the blunt
attacking of a brutal state,
and once destruction had begun,
could not escape, it couldn’t run.

Maybe there’s hope? Perhaps I’m wrong,
the birds may yet rejoice in song.
Compassion yet may be awoke,
respect for life both weak and strong –
the fragile wren, the mighty oak.
Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe there’s hope?

I am linking this to d’Verse Poets where Grace has introduced us to the Sparrowlet. Visit the post for more details about this intricate form. (



Image by Toa Heftiba, Unsplash

Shadow lashes flutter on steam drip tiles,
born from hemispheres of gutting light.
As soft lavender soaks the air,
white salt water clouds my neck
to my toes and I sink
lower until I
am just nail and
hair in a
fog of

This is a very late response to Monday’s quadrille prompt from De Jackson at d’Verse to write a 44 word poem including the word ‘salt’, or some form thereof. I have used the reversed etheree (again – I must like this form!). A bit late to link it to d’Verse, so I’ll just post it here.


white bird on water during daytime
Photo by Jeremy Bezanger, Unsplash.

Capricious comes, capricious goes,
Its elemental, I suppose.
One day its high, it hits the roof,
The next it signals cold, aloof.
I tried to trap it, like a fool,
To think it would obey my rule.
But off the handle it did fly
In a most precocious style.
Unpredictable, but wait,
It’ll surely remigrate.

Linked to Sammi’s Scribbles Word Prompt, (, which this week is ‘Capricious’ using exactly 55 words.

Answering the Call.

man carrying bag walking on street
Photo by Ben White, Unsplash.

I stepped into an aviary of sound,
it’s trumpet curling in the mid morn air,
calling me to listen, attend the signs
of winters slow eventual decline.

Reluctantly my feet marched to the streets,
where concrete slabs and tarmac overran.
Invading lorries, vans and endless cars
then hurled their heavy thrum into my path.

I raised my eyes to greet the passers by,
their visors down, they blanked my greeting call.
Until one man, a spring within his step,
Obliged my hail and smiled – he’d heard it too.

Linking this to d’Verse Poets where Ingrid is hosting: . As suggested, I did indeed walk while composing and must have looked an interesting sight as I occasionally stopped to count the meters out loud. I had a long walk to an appointment and the result pretty much reflects the experience.

Oh Daisy!

white and black cow
Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann, Unsplash.

Daisy chewed contentedly
and filled her bovine stomachs,
was unaware of all the fuss,
her farmer in a flummox.

If only she were more agile,
could raise her cloven hoof,
and hold it to her belching mouth,
thus making her gas proof.

Linking this to the weekend word prompt from SammiScribbles (see link above). This week’s word is ‘flummox’ and the word count is 42.


The kind people at Creative Writing Ink have chosen my poem ‘The Talisman’ for their October/November Writing Prompt Competition. I am re-posting it below:

The Talisman.

Resist the urge to scrape,
make good the flaking wreck –
that thin veneer of love
became unstuck too long ago.
Before you sweep the debris
left by once warm memories,
their rusted shards a heap
beneath your lovers’ nest,
unclench your hand
and feel your puckered heart,
contracted as the image burns
into your skin.
This scar will be your talisman,
against more suffering.

Linked to Creative Writing Ink, Writing Prompt One.

Silent Waiting.

gray bird on brown tree branch during daytime

The sky is a flawless stretch of achromatic grey. It’s as if it doesn’t want to be noticed. Just go back to bed and don’t bother me. The January winds have got bored and gone in search of other targets. The air is still and the bare elder arches its brittle branches feebly, waiting for another tickle. The only movement is a wood pigeon, which has taken up residence in an old nest within the tree. It looks precarious. Its cinerous body and pink-tinted chest inflated against the cold. Now it scrabbles onto an impossibly thin twig and seemingly floats on nothing, until it nods its head and swoops down, out of sight.

We are all waiting.
Preserving life out of sight.
Coffined in winter.

Linking this to Frank J Tassone’s prompt at d’Verse Poets ( to write a Haibun focussing on winter.