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.


The damp and dew

of Autumn brought

mushrooms to the lawn.

We rose early to pick them

on a golden morn.

Remnants of flowers

woke up, in the tangled grass,

diamond edged they sparkled

like myriads of glass.

Some leaves tinged

with red.

Others green, rimmed

with pearl.

Many to the earth were shed

to dance in a strong gale’s


The only living creatures;

Bushy tailed squirrels

hid nuts,

preparing for the winter

and future ration cuts.

Oh! Yes! The thrush

was singing

from a bush of berried holly

to the town garden


an air melodious and jolly.

Yet the blue sky changes

to feature darker shades.

We wonder how nature


every season as each one


We think of the delight

in just breathing the damp air

when everything was alright

that in poetry we’ve learnt

to share.


Her dress the colour

of a blue October sky

after rainfall has cleared

to show the sun.

I remember her well

though many years have

now gone by;

And her humor; her great

sense of fun.

Her laughter resonant

with the East end

recalled after years

have passed.

I think I could say

she was a good friend,

but sadly her life

did not last.

I pray that Jesus when

they finally met, with love

looked into her eyes

and said to her,

“Your mistakes I will forget

for in many ways you

were so wise.

There’s nothing now

for you to regret,

because you have my love

which never dies.”


It should be stated

this is complicated.

It’s a global economy.

Journalists find out

what no justice is about

with taxes to avoid

the truth is destroyed.

It’s so confusing,

but there’s no excusing

those who stoop

to find the loop

with investments off shore.

Yet they still want more.

Millions, billions even trillions

Funny how they rhyme


Not revealed to you and I.

We can’t do the accounting

of these Pandora capers

with funds mounting

revealed in the papers.

They’ve gone to Dubai

or to country estates.

And who evaluates

evidence which accumulates?

Is it true?

We’ve sold democracy?

What can we do

the likes of me and you?

Write about it,

talk about it,

broadcast to the Nation

Soon the Government

may silence conversation,

because it seems

many are implicated.

But as I said, it’s complicated!


Did you tell me

on a summer afternoon,

when birds alighted on the lawn.

It was a day in June.

Did you tell me how

the swallows always return.

And how the tall sunflowers

lean gold and seem to burn.

Yes I think you told me,

though I chose not to hear.

It seemed that you

might scold me,

I was half listening my dear.

You spoke to me of


not love that you could find,

on that summer day in June

when I tried hard not to mind.


Every day is precious

as are our dreams.

Everything matters

when all is as it seems.

Every breath we take

is better than wine.

Each movement we make

is physically divine.

Every good idea

is something to share.

Heavenly contact

may be found in prayer.

Life is a gift

we take in gratitude.

Miracles are feelings

that relate to mood.

A new day may arrive

to bring a fresh chance

when just being alive

will everything enhance!


Be not afraid

though winter

beckons autumn days.

It’s how earth’s made

in all her various ways.

Don’t hesitate.

Let in the day.

You shouldn’t wait.

Embrace the air

with spirits gay.

Interiors you prefer?

Leave the door ajar.

Watching the world

through glass;

it is too far.

Though poetry consoles

And music’s a delight

they fill the day’s holes

and fibers of the mind


The sound of Bach

rippling through the room

sets a wondrous mark

on the soul lifting

it from gloom.

The future may be cold

So be it then.

We are now old

past three score years

and ten.

We shall not fear

for love wont fail

We hold Love dear;

it will prevail!


She has opened the iron gate

so that sorrow

could emerge in search of peace;

From this flower she tried to borrow

a perfume that would never cease.

The seeds from which the flower sprang

were planted by scriptures read,

Then suddenly all the birds sang

in God’s orchestra overhead!


Speak not of yesterday,

for those times have fled.

There’s nothing more to say,

all her tears are shed.

The iron gate closed

on her grief and wont

open again.

Not for one second brief

will emerge the pain.

She can’t hope love

will revive and bloom


For that which was so alive

is buried in deep sorrow.


She couldn’t sleep for thinking

of the wrong she’d done

in the days when she was drinking

and everything seemed fun.

There was no reparation;

No healing of the rift,

but a long separation

from a love that was a gift.

When she rose at daybreak,

she pondered in her heart

on the terrible mistake

that had torn them all apart.

And though the faults were shared

this lessoned not the pain

because once they had all cared

yet they never would again.

And while the past is gone

And we cannot relive it

life can again move on

when we learn to forgive it.