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


Sunday, 12 July 2015

Still grows the dog rose

9 am

open the windows wide

let July breathe her warm air

over me.

Are we really be half way

through this year already?

I have days circled to

celebrate .

Quiet and soft days

when I'll pretend to

be Daphne Du Maurier

walking along the

Cornish coast,

my bag full of her books.

This summer is still young.

Still grows the dog rose,




that wait,



Wednesday, 8 July 2015

These hands

These hands 

have cradled me in my darkest hours

Laboured long days 

and nights to keep our home in shape

built fences

flown kites with me and 

circled mine with love.

I love these hands.

Thursday, 18 June 2015

Run Forrest, run

The words are still here.

Floating around on the

sunlit air

like golden
summer fireflies.

I just haven't had time to write.

When the sun comes
it's time for bikes
and red gingham picnic rugs
while we lie under
huge trees
dreaming that we see Forrest Gump
smiling down at us.



Like a Ballerina
waiting in the wings.

Run, Forrest , run

Saturday, 30 May 2015

When summer comes

of when summer comes.

Driving home
watching school girls,
ponytails bobbing
and satchels wrapped round them
like cobwebs
of the learning week.

The silence
of waiting for the season
is blinding white
I long for
the smell of the sea
and caves
full of summer fireflies.

Come sun
shine like a jewel
on these days

when we will
go to the cockle shell cottages
and beaches
that glimmer like starlight.




Sunday, 17 May 2015

3:30 am ( ish )

[ Header note ]

I lay awake

last night at 3:30 am ( ish )

wondering if I should write.




the love I have for that quiet time

between night and morning

when all around are asleep

and Heaven is ready to shake off

her dress of silver stars

to herald a new dawn.

The occasional sound

of a car going somewhere

and the soft sound of the wind.


Chopin~  because nothing else

will do at that hour .

Let's turn our soft faces southward

to Cornwall in September


brightly coloured buckets and spades

chips from a paper bag.

All the while

looking out

to the laughing crystal sea.

Out to the tranquil bay we will go

and what of those

3:30 am ( ish ) thoughts then?