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!



Jane climbed fences and trees;
Came home covered in mud
With a dog.

The blonde girl next door
Wasn’t allowed to get dirty.
Her father called her through his nose,

“Pamela! Get off the mould!”
As he tested sheets for dryness
To mother’s scorn.
“He even likes knitting!”

Pamela conceived on the fireside rug
While her parents were at church.
But she got married
And had many children.

Jane married twice
And didn’t have any.


He passed, that gallant spirit, to his last rest
With the combers crashing on the shattered deck.
As he always faced life smiling, so he met his last grim test
Mid the chaos of that ghastly midnight wreck.

We had laughed at life together at the dockside and the ball,
We had shared what good or ill the Fates might send;
But the darkness and the thunder of the surges brought his call
And sleep beneath the rollers is the end.

The end? No! Not the finish! Far beyond the scattered stars
We shall meet amid the sunset’s rose and gold;
I shall feel his steady handclasp, when my soul has burst the bars,
I shall see his grey eyes smiling as of old.

By My father: Donald Ian McGregor 1908 -1985


He is not in his usual place.
Now he has gone there leaves a space
For her private grief to fill,
But then he was very ill.

We treasure things he left behind:
Wood work and the deeds so kind,
The laughter and his teasing ways.
Farewell brave soul from happier days.

In memory of Colin Spencer
Who died yesterday at 7.30 p.m 25th January 2018
He was a dearly loved brother- in-law


An actor’s life is a struggle
That’s what he loved about it.
Jean got in a muddle
Because she didn’t doubt it.
Tony’s black hair was gleaming.
His olive shaped eyes amused.
Perhaps she was only dreaming
For she found herself being used.

At weekends he was stopping.
They loved and laughed a great deal.
She paid for all the shopping
Because of how he made her feel.
Though time wore out their passion.
She just couldn’t let go.
She was no longer his fashion.
Her spirits sank very low.

He left her in so much debt
She sold everything she had.
With so much to regret
London’s grey streets drove her mad.
But she found a way to recover
As the years went passing by
Was to take a different lover
Who is a very nice guy.
But theatre visits? No way!
And she will not tell the reason.
The only thing she will say,
Is that each actor has their season!


Old age isn’t funny
When they’re waiting for your money
To retire somewhere sunny.
It’s the pits!
When you hide the pills,
Despite many ills,
It’s one of life’s last thrills,
This war of wits.

Old age has you asking
Why they should be basking
Sunlit and multi tasking
When you’re dead.
You want them all to weep.
And cry themselves to sleep.
And show a love so deep
This must be said.

It seems it will not wash
When you leave all your dosh
To help them to be posh my friend.
There is no measure
Of the things we treasure,
But it’s Love gives the most pleasure
In the end!


They did not return
In the evening light.
You sat sewing
Waiting for a call
To say they were alright.
Through net curtains
You did not see them,
But your kept the curtains white.

Your children grown and gone.
Through passing years
You carried on.
They did not see the tears
That haunt your dreams.
Regardless of your fears.
They don’t ask,
“Are you alright”

You could not know
That in their old age,
With your photo near
Guilt to assuage,
When they had not slept
But did recall
How dear you once were.
When you meant all.
Then how bitterly
They wept.