She can listen to opera
While he is gone
And let her gaze fall
Where the sunlight has shone
Leaving a pool of golden light,
She can enjoy being alone despite
The empty room;
It contains no gloom
She can paint, write or dream.
Though his presence may seem
Rare these days, he is always out
But if that is all there is
To complain about,
She will not protest.
No not she,
But will enjoy life’s happiness
Content just to be.


How lovely in the morning light
My mother’s face so young despite
Her age of ninety years and three
So beautiful she seemed to me.

Enhanced by make up it is true
Her peach skin shone. Her eyes were blue.
Deep royal blue the coat she wore
When she stepped out of her front door..

Her stature small. Her will power strong.
She always brought her dog along:
A Yorkie straining at the lead
Trying to get her up to speed.

Of all the people that they met
Not many of them will forget
The spirited and humorous talk
Of this old lady on her walk.

Now she’s gone, on mornings clear
When out, I sometimes feel her near
And thanking God for the bright sun,
I pray she’s with him having fun.


I wonder if the good we’ve done
Will outweigh the bad.
Or misery cancel out the fun
That in life we’ve had.

A time now to consider this
Is niggling at the brain.
We may not know eternal bliss
Or can start again.

I pray that if the great world ends
Our history will live,
So enemies can become friends
And learn to forgive.


The flowers of existence
Are the people who bloom here.
Once foreign they reside
Next door to us.
Some neighbours object to them
And it isn’t clear
Why they make so much resentful fuss!

Dark eyed children call “Hello!”
Their parents smile and greet.
Unlike us English, may it be said.
I know who I prefer to acknowledge
in the street.
And it isn’t Bill or Bert or Fred!

Sometimes from next door
A woman bearing food,
Or an invite to a wedding is proffered.
As neighbours the Bangladeshis are so good.
It’s delightful their immigration
Has occurred.


In the heat of a July evening
You admit you paid for everything.
Now they’ve gone back to their own
You won’t get it back.
It’s only money.
What does it matter?
We are alive.
There’s food on the table.
The rent is paid. It’s summer.
They might come back.
Will you do it again?
Their memory is tinged
With bitterness, but it felt good
At the time.
We are poor, yet not worn out,
With accounting, despite the overdraft
Subtracted from our home
Of freedom and love, where the
Travellers came, their eyes
Fixed on small screens in silence,
While we made tea.


We climb a mountain,
Legs torn by brambles.
The sister I love
Struggles behind me.
Briars and thorns.
A dark sky above.
The wind howling blindly.

Holding the bushes,
Slowly ascending.
She loses her footing
Is gone!
My voice calls her name
It echoes unending
On and on……..

Alone now, I weep.
Frozen limbs, stillness.
The hostile mountain.
Rocks below.
I wake up relieved
As from an illness.
The dream stays.
It won’t go.

A dream telling of
Our long separation.
It was untrue though
We are estranged.
But I accept
There is no reparation.
It’s the way some fates
Are arranged.