Now

In a week, everything has changed. Now the sun is out, the sky is blue. The seasons have made a turn. — Today I am reminded of a much loved poem look – really look that was inspired by an evocative interview with an elderly gentleman about his balcony garden in the Barbican (London). The return

plant this great choice in height and spread

Plant asters by autumn When all else fades, semi-trailing heath comes into its own. In banks and borders snow-petalled asters make a brilliant ground cover. Shimmering their heads: a butterfly magnet in the wildlife garden’s banks and borders. Plant this by autumn, plant this great choice in height and spread before the winter turns. –

Another short story

ScrapsYard.com | Congratulations | Forward this Picture Here is another short story completed for the exercise of completion. This tale developed in response to a balloon in a florist’s van. I’m also love to hear your ideas for story prompts. Please share them with me by dropping a line below. Hand-tie Harry arrives at 11am

They had slept through storms before

January brought with it a blizzard. Icy darts aimed for our knees and the testing froze our sense of belonging to that land. The old bears sunk deeper in their caves, groaned and turned their backs on winter’s sluice trusting that in time from it would flow all the blooms of spring. 31/12/14 — I

Postmarked from a Café

This greeting comes cold from the residue of morning, 3rd October. Last draff of coffee in the cup on a saucer that would rather be the stippled salver that serves red to passersby and those who scan the street for things to watch and then behold anthuriums for sale at the florist. “Paris” 2014 —

he growls today and shakes his whole self

“Look At“, a poem posted this time last year, is a combination of a journal poem and a pavement poem. Derived from mental notes taken during a walk along East Finchley High Road, it documents the comings and goings of an ordinary morning. Observing the ordinary and everyday is a recurring theme. “Look – really look”

An overdose of summer

Soft to the thumb, the pear I sliced was gone. It was rotten inside. In a wither of ruffles the rose-heads have browned dry in the heat. They sodden after it’s stormed. Even the blowflies ferocious have stopped their wings, landed their green torpedoes for the last time. Something from lunch churns in my stomach

shoulders undressed their cheeks

                A merry poem from the archive about summer’s sunny kisses. Vintage postcard image courtesy of Postcard Diva.

look – really look

I will be 80 this year here in my flat only a mile and a half from where I was born. I have tried to lead by example, by plunging my narrow balcony into the principality of hanging gardens. Concrete is brutal. It needs softening. Plants should have dominion. We breakfast amidst the crisp verdure

Don’t Waste Paris

Don’t waste the joy of new places on absent sources of heartache. Don’t Waste Paris on a Broken Heart.