Sunday, 20 September 2015

The boy in the red apron

Flying above the rain

where the

sun always seems to shine

then down

to the glorious fields

spread out like green cotton sheets

across the land.

Hay bales rolled ,
and sitting in an orderly line.

How I love this place
where the cry of the gulls
is never ending

the smell of salt in my hair
and sandy toes
are a daily given.

To escape from the harsh realities
of life
away from the worry
is nice.


Yesterday to the place
where the boy in the red apron
smiled at me
his youthful face
full of good manners
and loveliness.

He spoke with ( what I imagined )
to be the accent of a boy
who had gone to Harrow School
his words dripping like honey
onto my plate.

How I loved that moment
the peace

I worry about




Monday, 7 September 2015

This Golden September

The car carried us into town

where the leaves,

like old friends ~

fought for  attention
around our feet.

Not long now
until the adventure begins.

The days grow shorter
light disappears
like sugar in tea.

My imagination is keeping me sane


my mind allows

escape to peaceful places.

Out the door

and down to the beach I go.

I sit on the stones

gazing out at the sea

tasting the salt on my lips and skin.

This golden September

good enough to eat.

Every turn in the road of our lives

brings a new worry, a new concern.

I find comfort

in writing, books;

and endless cups of coffee.

I still breathe.

I am.

Resting in His love,

it is enough.

 : You who sit down in the High God's presence, spend the night in Shaddai's shadow, 
Say this: "God, you're my refuge. I trust in you and I'm safe!" 
That's right - he rescues you from hidden traps, shields you from deadly hazards.
 His huge outstretched arms protect you - under them you're perfectly safe; his arms fend off all harm. :

Psalm 91, The Message 

Sunday, 30 August 2015


Listening to

* the sixteen*

their notes floating


and drifting down

to hide among the

bright folded

Sunday sheets.

Vacation is coming.

I have so many books to read
and catch up on ~

and don't know which ones to take.

the wind is blowing outside the window

almost as if it is

sending falling

stars onto the floor.

Coffee, warm and bitter .

Down the row houses

and the row lives

Sunday papers are being read

lunch is being prepared.

All behind hidden windows

that no one ever sees.

My mind assures me

that summer , can we call it summer? ....

will stay.

Or at least, arrive.

The church bells are ringing.

The singing of God's praises has started.


Tuesday, 18 August 2015

These little things

I've wakened early.

Dawn is spilling in through

the attic window


far away I  can hear the sounds

of circling seagulls.

Sea birds that come to town.
That fact always amazed me.

Like they are taking a vacation from the sea!

the sounds of lorries ,
and a world waking to
a brand new day.

A day when all over the world
coffee will  be drunk
washing will be hung out
like dancing ribbons on lines

people will get on planes,
to come,
to go.

How big this world !

Soon ~
we will go to the rugged Cornish Coast
where the sky will hang
( we hope)
like a turquoise sheet.

Daphne Du Maurier
will rest in my palm
and her words
will fill my soul.

These little things,

of life

Sunday, 9 August 2015

Down to the sea we went

Those old,

wild restless longings

returned ~

so down to the sea we went.

I'm tired,


I needed to feel the wind
in my hair

and taste salt on my lips.

Like that day on Scarborough beach.

These past
mornings have almost
felt like Autumn
and I'm not ready for that.

Not yet.
Summer is still sitting
on my bones
and it's
33 days until holiday.

To go where the sea is a riot of colour

and crashes on the rocks,

to walk among the everlasting hills.







Sunday, 26 July 2015

The quietest things

The city is grey with rain again.

I'm drinking coffee ,

listening to old songs and

thinking about what joy

writing brings to me.

These  beautiful little

pearls that push into my palms

and fingers and flow out like

water from a harbour to the sea.

The light is fleeting,

rare ~

disappearing  all too quickly.

Days go by  like beads on an abacus.

Quickly, quickly.

I realised the other day

I write because I want to remember.

Each day,

each moment of life

pressed like rose petals in a book.

A book that can be returned to
to catch the perfume
of what once was.

I ( often )
wonder does it matter,

that every day
of the last fifteen years
one of my small joys is the sound of the 7am flight
passing over our house,
London bound?

It brings such calm, you see.

Oh these beautiful days.

Wear them, ( I think to myself)
like  a necklace
of pretty glass beads.

Make these moments precious
dear hearts

make them count







It's the quietest things, you see




Sunday, 19 July 2015

The richness of light

We are,

a handful of all

the beautiful things.

Strange little pearls

that life scatters

across our hearts.


It's like trying to find

the X on a pirate's map

and yet,

there have been days

when the sun has warmed us

our faces lifted to the sky

waiting for

a shower of golden

tattered confetti



Then come the days

when the sun hides


and yet  we love ~

we wait;

because we know

the rainbows

will bleed


over the street

while we listen,

and wait again.

Until summer