When a cat has kittens
New games are born
Of every kind.
When a cat has kittens
A child may find
Names and natures of
Pure delight,
Watching them tumble
And playfully fight.
When they tread in a saucer of milk,
Their mother washes
Their coats of silk.
When a cat has kittens
A child can dream
Of adventures for them
And it can seem
There is nothing sweeter
Or more dear
Than the graceful cat
Who makes it clear
That cats are superior
To you and me
And with this
We should all agree!
The child will remember
All her life long
That September
When nothing went wrong
For the cat had kittens;
They were new friends
For a friendship with
pussy cats never ends.



While she peeled potatoes,
Her mind was on higher things;
Such as W.B Yeats and Auden:
The poets who have wings.
As she dug the eyes out
Of a tough potato skin
She pondered on life and poetry,
On goodness and of sin.
And how many resolutions
Had wound up in the bin.

For vows that have been broken
Are hard to renew,
They leave a bitter token
Like a debt that’s overdue.
And a feeling that one’s worth
Is of the very least.
She decided it was better
To consult her parish priest
And to do this with urgency,
For her self doubt had increased.

Instead of this solution,
She thought to run for cover
And hide herself in poetry,
Then blame it on her mother!


A girl’s smile
burgeoning despite local mire.
Clouds are heavy above
Pierced by the sun’s fire.
Ashes scattered where
Plants will grow.
A level dark eyed stare
Tells him all he needs to know.
Ivory silk flung aside.
Face the deep night.
A savage bride
Outlined in silver light.
She laughs with rapture
At his gaze.
He loves his capture
With passion’s blaze
Outside, people are for sale
They pass silently by
Theirs is another tale
Poverty the reason why?
But yeilding to the love
that dwells
In their beating hearts
Privilege is one of the spells
Where such joy starts.


Have I whiled away the day
Hearing what you have to say:
Of your plans and dreams?
Then rising from my chair,
I put aside a book of prayer
And go to feed the cat
And mundane things like that.
There is no other with your grace
So I return to my place
And listen, for I have that gift
Of gathering ideas to sift.
Thankful because they are unique
The thoughts of which you speak.


Always another love
Takes his attention.
Something his wife
Prefers not to mention.

Each time a woman
Obscures the day
His wife hopes she
Wont take him away.

But he comes back
And she still cares
Despite the frequency of
His affairs.

Always another love
Through long years
With often an ending
To bring on tears.

Does he seek comfort?
No not he.
There’s always another love



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.