Are you allowed the morning
When the sun shines on a Spring day
And the daffodils belie mourning?
Are you still not able to pray,
As our future spreads like a gilded path
And the breeze persuades you
To laugh anyway?

The church bells are ringing.
All the market stalls are set up.
Joyfully the choir are singing.
A boy hugs a Staffordshire pup.
While the priest in a light filled church
Comes to offer the holy cup.

Can you venture to explore
The maize of city streets
Where you haven’t walked before
And where every language greets?
Will God send life this morning
Wrapped up in poetical words
Will you wake with knowledge dawning
Of his love with the song of the birds/



I ventured into the city street
Then sojourned in the gallery.
The art in Manchester I went to meet
And there among the paintings I did stay.
Lowrey and Holman Hunt a must to see.
A fine collection of Wedgewood too.
The button collection enraptured me.
I designed one waiting there for you.

Then Yeat’s portrait by Augustus John.
And Albert Square painted by Pierre Vilette.
Pre- Rhaphaelites with great pleasure I looked on.
Ten postcards bought so that I don’t forget.
And while in Prince’s Street a downpour rained
I felt enfolded in a kind of peace.
Everywhere I found the art explained
Therefore my explorations did not cease.

I paused near sculpture by the great Epstein
Then on to pottery and craft’s delights.
It felt as if the world of art was mine,
Participating in creative heights.
The staff were helpful at the gallery.
It was a pleasant place to spend the day.
I did not leave ’till half past three,
Enriched by having time to while away.


Play me the tune
Of a pink star near the moon
And other combinations.
Turquoise and yellow
May inspire the cello
To rich orchestral

Oh! Play me the sound
Of Love so profound
That colours of music portray.
A bowl of burnt gold
In the light to behold,
Is beautiful to survey.

These splendid designs
Of creation are signs
That God loves harmony.
A tiny snow flake
Can’t be a mistake,
Nor a peacock made accidently,

A marvelous mystery
Is our thoughts’ first history
Which we don’t understand.
We are not equipped
Even though micro chipped,
To know why our being was planned.


There is no snow again this year.
The seasons are changing.
The climate struggles to stay clear
Of human re-arranging.

The opal sky is bright
With silver clouds outlined.
We gaze up to its height
While to the earth consigned.

Black boughs bereft of leaves
Spread patterns in the air
Through which a sparrow weaves
Its solitary prayer,

That Spring will come once more
With emerald buds emerging.
This must be what life’s for –
The world’s great force re-surging!


Is scorn sharp as a lemon
Anger red as a flame?
Is jealousy sour as old milk
Yellow the colour of shame?
Does excitement tingle
Like silver sparks?
Can a humorous jingle
Guarantee larks?

Is softness a kitten?
Does a poet dream?
When a lover is smitten
Is love all it may seem?
When the mind dwells on death
Does depression result?
When counting one’s breath
Is it anyone’s fault?

Does one avoid feeling
By training the eyes
To gaze at the ceiling
In an attempt to be wise?
The brain may be full
Perhaps that is best
Until gravity’s pull
Incites one to rest.

But the colours and sounds
That crowd into the room
Are reminders that life exists
Outside the gloom.
Does an orange seem
Utterly right:
Round and so perfect
Luminously bright.

It captures the gaze
Of this poet’s joy
So she has risen
Her pen to employ.


Veins are like paths
Leading into a forest of flesh.
Burnished hair sparkles
On branches of bone.
Lines on the skin spread
like a cape.
Movement changes shape
Captured by physique.
Is life a fragmented dance?
Ask the trees;they shed glory,
Whisper questions.
Ask the rain whose silver
Drops gleam, pitter patter
pitter patter.
Ask the wind roaring
Through a world of questions.
Ask the stars shining
In the darkness of many paths
Linking it all
To the obscured answer
Which may never emerge,
But if it is found,
It will be everything!


When she was young
The earth smelled sweet.
She wore Scholl sandals on her feet;
They shaped leather arches and toes.
She walked so carefree in those.

When she was young
The grass was greener.
The sky stretched far.
The clouds were cleaner.
She felt so healthy and so brave
Then she met a boy called Dave.

When she was young
She made up stories
Imagining future glories.
What a shock when she had to work
At a job she loathed and tried
to shirk.

When she was young
Like a butterfly
In the office caged, she
Wanted to die
Her temper raged,
She tried to escape
And there was Dave who
Loved her shape.

When they were young
They were wed.
Along came a baby.
They called him Ned.
She watched him grow
But she felt sad
For her youth had flown
Despite what they had.