blue tits flit quickly
among the bare apple trees –
small sudden blossoms

last red flush of dusk
two swans sleep in flooded field
heads under their wings

sheep’s wool on barbed wire
chalky paths wind round the hills
to the stone circle

the woodpecker flies
across the winter garden
red feathers startling

a Wednesday morning
the village street is quiet
then, an accident

sea merges with sky
in the grey of midwinter
I pick up a shell

thinking of a place
white sand, clear turquoise water
when will I return?

old faded photo’s
I fix them in an album,
the baby wakes up

cobwebs in corners
fluttering like caged birds
waiting for Spring sun

before I woke up
snow fell beneath a full moon
my pillow is soft

sunlight on the wall
flickers as a bird flies by –
it will soon be Spring

bowl of oranges
glowing like tropical sun
on a winter’s day

Thirty-one years later
my son was born in the night.
I was on a high.

It snowed in London
the day my sister was born.
I went to the Fair.

a sky full of stars
spinning slowly round the earth
I see one falling

purrrrrrr, stretch and a yawn.
Eighteen long and happy years –
we won’t forget him

Grey January.
At the end of a dark day
sunshine surprised me

Standing room only.
People travel underground
their eyes not meeting

High tide stormy sea
waves surge across the shingle
gulls just specks of foam

walking, eyes downcast
petrol puddles span the road
rainbows underfoot.

In a muddy field
the dog digs deep in ditches
looking for her ball

A faint feathered shape
where the bird hit the window.
The rain clouds gather.

A barn owl hunting
flies silently in the dusk
heart-faced, sharp taloned

a single black crow
perched high in a leafless beech
summer’s nest below

So dark this morning
even the birds hide away
waiting for the sun

Molehills freshly turned –
new drifts across the meadows
where the snow has thawed

The church clock struck three
village centre deserted
woodsmoke in the air

found a dead mayfly
filmy wings still summer-blue
though snow was falling