Waitrose has finished off two fairy cakes

At the bottom of my road is a lovely green space poetically known as Cherry Tree Wood. Like the promised verdant idyll of Heather Green (explored in my poem of the same name) the Cherry Tree’s title is slightly deceptive. There are neither cherries nor much of a wood, unless you count the encalve of tress at the far

Nos Liberavit

Bell-like, round and clear Hopeful and transparent as a copper bauble, it lifts the congregation. From the sanctuary the maiden’s voice soars and plunges as she elongates the siren call.   — I am not a groupie. I’d rather spend my days in a hermit’s hut on a mountainside with books, green tea and yoga