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

Next to the postbox

I must be one of the last humans who still writes letters and postcards. From the archive, a poem about completing a letter while standing on the pavement next to a local postbox. This poem is included in my book, Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys.

A New Room

Yonder far o’er vale and glen whereto grooms return and bread is leaven. This is another country. Today, outside, is a new room in which five builders, tiered upon scaffolding, cannot hear All Blues. This is no time for saxophone wails. Stand at the window and look out on the fresh planks. The backdrop: bared

An address from a lectern

Here ‘fore me, plinth of polish For the tree to rest on wood In flat sheets with fastened thoughts Set forth as marching words.   Heralded tonight and often They are by crest announced. We cluster! And applaud. It is a shared experience.   Now, to – I must address:   From nothing written from

Tightly Sealed

In four homemade hummus lines I can tell a half bowl of you about leftover Friday rice. In at five, the rather wrinkled mushrooms tell their brown paper, we’re from Zoe. In four lines broccoli, I, a courgette, can three carrots tell, tell vacuum-packed beetroot about yellowing curly kale on the lower shelf. In a