Betsy, I Remember You - A true story written in 1994, of childhood in an English village, recollected during a time of illness. (pdf)
The Ride Home - A true story written in 1993 about a chance encounter in an ambulance. (pdf)
After Lunch - The friends of people with CFS only see the tip of the iceberg: when we go out we appear ok, but friends do not see the before and after. This is an account of one afternoon, told in the third person. (pdf)


Poems

Silence

I will meet you in the silence.
In the grey of dawn,
At the meeting of worlds,
When I am truly myself.

I shall meet truth there,
In the naked stillness of the soul
When much has been,
Yet all is beginning.

I will meet peace in the silence
In the stillness of the branches
Before the day's first stirrings
While the world is still my own.

1991

Wind

Summer
streams in the open window
buttercups and daisies
long grass in the sunshine
     (swaying and bobbing)
carried on the wind
sweeping through meadows
snatching at scents
bearing them onward

Onward, past country roadside stalls
of holiday veges
     (Come on, Mum!)
On, by buckets and spades, flapping sails
the screaming of kids, the seagulls' wail...

on, on...
the rasp of cicadas
rustling leaves waving at the sun
feathered cacophony in the branches,
through shimmering heat
and the lawnmowers' drone
Eastward rolls the hot, dry wind
bearing a memory of each encounter –
on to the waves, where it began.

1994

Waiting for a Storm

I think it’s going to rain tonight.

Waves are surging round the rocks
and the point – buttressed like a cathedral –
stands motionless in the sea

It's darkening; one cicada rasps

The other side of the glass it's still
– no – a breath moves the fronds
– and another – stronger –

The air shifts uneasily, as if readying itself
to speak its mind and relieve this silence
of unexpressed tensions

– another gust –

Is the sky going to open up?
... or is the day merely at its exhausted end,
retreating into slumber?

It's too quiet here

I listen for the cicada. It's gone
– but the waves are louder

1999

December Evening

These idle branches, this tranquil shore
empty windows, an old car
distantly spluttering uphill
to a backdrop of bird song;

the refrigerator’s hum,
a flap of wings –
the sad stillness of day’s end
is in them all

as day fails
but the world lives on – beyond
an ending where
memories begin;

If all my years converge
upon this point,
am I now all ages?
Longings for cricket pitch,

mountain track,
white sculpted slopes
against impossible blue,
air cold and dry as a blade

– through these TV afternoon
attempts to rest
from fighting ropes of ache
to work until bound

Disparate realities
diverse ages
– but all me:
cruel contrast to reconcile

Shall I go in
– put the day to bed?
I’d like to sit,
gaze at the distant shore

This beauty, at least,
is real

2000

Petals

You sent me petals
I sent you tears

You stripped your garden,
Filled a card;

Sent crimson gifts,
Mute words

Whispering love
Like arrows

Sweetly wounding
My heart

With silent kisses
That will never fade

You sent me petals
I sent you tears

Grief reached you
Before your petals arrived

2001

Here and There

I walk between
here and there
present and absent
what was, what is
happiness, reflection
ebbing and flowing
but my heart
is full,
floating in distraction

2006

Innocent Afternoon

The innocent afternoon
Leaf-green bright
Dance of light
Among the trees
The air that breathes
Upon the curtains
Before these open window panes
Drifts the tremulous
Light and dark
Of leaf and bark
And cobweb in the sun,
The springtime sway
Of fern and bough
And sun-cool meadow-air,
Against the cheek
Of one within

20 Oct 2013

Moments

Every day
is a turning away;
every hour,
a crossroads;
every minute,
a fulcrum
about which
tomorrow's relief
or regret turns.
Every thought
casts light
or a long shadow
over tomorrow.
Every moment counts.

13 Nov 2013