Her days of housework are over.
She has to live with the dust.
She would say to me, “Come on over.
You’re the only one I trust”

Her days of not cleaning the windows
Scar the incoming sun.
A curtain flaps
Where its hook unwraps.
The repair has not been done.

Her days of action suspended.
She sits upright in her chair.
An old lady I’ve befriended.
She refuses to go into care.

There are many old people
Liviing in isolation.
What they really need is
Lively conversation.

She is deaf. Her eyesight is poor.
She is aged ninety three.
Nothing happens anymore.
She’s content just to rest and be.

There’s a splendid view from her home.
East London spreads out below.
You can clearly see the Dome
Lit up in the sky’s rosy glow.

Reader, pause for a while.
Say a prayer for such as she.
I can still see her bravely smile
As she waves goodbye to me.



Bedraggled green stems
Whose ochre bells
And lemon skirts droop
on the snow.
A sign of early Spring
Defeated by late winter.
A crow pecks the iron ground
Whose silver gleams
Are without promise.
A still air hangs mist
Among branches.
Trees tall silhouettes
of ebony as their stretching
Reaches into the cold day.

Prayers for Palm Sunday
Echo from a nearby church.
Children, running, shouting,
laughing under a bluebell sky.
Joyful, though Summer is a long
time coming and the days
are short.
Not for them, childhood
is lengthy.
Let not our winter destroy
their Spring so that
the warmth of Summer
Will blossom again.


Across cornfields
The empty sky.
Gone, gone are
The buildings high.
Gone, gone are motor cars.
They have returned
The silver stars.

And the bright technology
Has been vanquished
No electricity.
No gas, no heat
No telephone.
Man outlined on the sky

And now the human
must survive
In a world without
comfort and he
Must strive
Working the land
And woman too
Must begin to learn
Old things anew

Who is the enemy
That one blames?
Was it the Russians
Or the Americans who
Destroyed the modern
World in flames
Or was it me and
Was it you?


Fantasy’s child.
Does she exist?
We see her in adverts
Or have we just missed
The exact images
Which change every day.
Will fantasy’s child ever go away?
One day she is blonde.
The next she is black.
Fantasy’s child always comes back.
Even when old
She sells us death plans.
Is Fantasy’s child
A creation of mans?

Here in blue jeans
With flowing hair.
Next in outfits we’d all
like to wear.
Her fantasy man is slim;
He has flair.
He is tall, dark
And so debonair.
It seems when we’re
shopping, minds are diminished.
Real people invisible
Till we are finished,
For only the ads.,
And the looking glass rule.
People just love it
It makes us feel cool,

For the moment
Till reality shows
How expensive and fragile
Are these new clothes.
For they wear out
Or spoil with a stain
So off we go shopping
Again and again!
We all need a lift
So the ads do attract
Though trees in the shopping mall
Are sadly lacked.
The bright photographs
Offer fantasy’s child.
As I just passed her
I’ll swear that she smiled!

Actually I hate shopping!


Waiting in air that’s still.
Small noises fill
The long afternoon
Near evening.

Where are you?
Why did you not come?
The night deepens outside.
She is numb
With damaged pride.

Her dress is new.
The table is set for two.
Now she won’t cook,
But go to bed.
The phone is off the hook
She has finished
The bottle of red!


Aquamarine satin dress.
Slender, pale limbs.
A silver locket at her throat
Containing HIS picture.

Dark brown hair
Not yet bleached,
Permed in the fashion.
Dainty white high heeled
leather shoes.

Wide eyes reflecting
Innocence of her allure.
She is sixteen
In nineteen fifty seven,
Drinking Baby Cham

Yearning to be pregnant.
Rock and Roll music
Rips through the house.
Her parents are absent.


The times they lived through
Forged their being
Something the young
Had trouble seeing.
When parents spoke
of the war
Youngsters yawned
Oh what a bore!
When mother had no money
The children asked
For bread and honey.
The houses then
Were freezing cold
It wasn’t until
The children were old
That they thought
Of their parent’s aches and pains
The many losses and few gains
That had burdened those lives
So hard that the memory
Still survives.
Compassion for them
Comes too late
To lessen a burden
That was great.
Only a prayer
That they are at peace
In a place where
Human worries cease.