What to share?

Blue sky courtesy of Mike C. S. @mikecs on Unsplash

What to share?

A truck on the High Road

Is a rumble away. Fresh breeze,

cold noise, morning cloud.

A white morning is smaller

than usual. Less time.

The garden’s recovering,

sucking the soil. Where is the



This almost early autumn morning was probably the opposite of today.

Today, outside, the sky is blue, blue, blue. It is, indeed, three blues: a greyer, lighter one near the horizon, a firmer one arcing over us and above, at the cupola of today’s summer sky, it’s London summer blue.

London summer blue, so welcome;
rare in your cloudless expanse.

I trust that the sun will warm the day as it goes along. There was still (even) a chill as I took my morning walk at 8.30am. After ten years I still struggle to gauge the weather from the London sky – if there is blue sky, it might not be hot, if it’s overcast it might not be as cold as I think it could be. Yesterday, it was very grey and rained until after 10.30am. I was reluctant to head out for the day’s walk. I stalled (phone scrolling, Whatsapp calls) and lingered (taking my time to make a coffee in the cafetiere, decant and take along). When I finally set off, I had to stop at the first bench on the Bishops Avenue to remove the pullover, long-sleeved top and rain-jacket I had on.

It was warmer than
my reading of the sky.

Why am I writing about the weather? I am also talking about the sky. My neighbour in the loft is this changing scape – clouds, rain, wind, rainbows and man’s fireworks. My other neighbours are birds. The large crows that survey their realm from the end of the ridge-board and the magpies stomping on my roof. They make a determined noise.

“What to share?” is from a slim new volume that I compiled during lockdown. Most of the poems are from 2018, a time – like many before commuting stalled – when I used to write on London transport. The micro-collection is titled Jangle between Jangle and I’ll share more poems from it in the months ahead.

So, to, this is enough sharing
for today.

Update: There are now small clouds edging up from the horizon.


Green Lock and Door
By Swastiverma (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

The lock on the bolt
hung like a coat
flashing its lining
of polished gold.
The weathered door was envious;
Its varnish long sapped
by the sun.

New poems have been a little scarce recently because I have been writing about my dating experiences again. I have yet to find the courage, or fictionalising voice, to share these tales with the general public. Some have said I should; others have cautioned against it. Being a geek, what I have done is turn to research.

From my local library I have borrowed dating memoirs and raunchy books about female sexuality (you know the sort that raises the librarian’s eyebrows to a quiver and the only issue dates to three years back). I’m currently reading a psychologist’s take on infidelity and the difficulties of monogamy. Plus I’ve been on something like 21 dates with 18 men, with another scheduled for 45 minutes from now. For an introvert, this has proved exhausting. Not surprisingly, I have been down with some chest infection, which is now on day 11. I’m not sure if there’s actually any real point to the whole dating enterprise. It has been said that for every 12 ‘nos’ the 13th is a ‘yes.’ I’m also still waiting for that to transpire in my career

Today’s poem is about a polished, gold lock on a weathered door. Perhaps it’s a meditation on my exhaustion and envy of the seemingly solid. Irrespective of any psychoanalytic interpretation, I hope you enjoyed the short verse.

Twitter: @BeadedQuill
Facebook: BeadedQuill
In the Ocean: a year of poetry
Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys
Shining in Brightness: Selected Poems, 1999 – 2012

An overdose of summer

A Blow-fly (Calliphora, probably Calliphora vomitória). Photo by Jens Buurgaard Nielsen via Wikimedia Commons.
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 –

the rice, three days old?
the dhal, two days defrosted?
the sliver of cheese, too sweaty?
the coffee, a cup too many?

Now I, too, struggle 
to hold down this summer.


At the moment in London, it is exceedingly warm during the day. Not that it doesn’t get hotter in other places, but here nothing is equipped for the heat. Flowers wilt, flies buzz themselves out, food perspires and no sooner have you laid it in the bowl, the fruit ripens. Even the broadband at the house has conked out.

So I shall have to venture to the library to post this poem and a few scheduled archive items. It was my plan to do so early, when the day was still cool from the night rains and the school holiday crowds hadn’t descended. But I went dancing last night… I too am not quite sure what to do with myself. This is not so much because of the heat. I am a born-and-bred Cape Town girl, after all. (In truth though, I – and my Medea hair – do struggle with the humidity.) My muse seems to be awol once again.

Perhaps my muse has also surrendered to this overdose of summer.

Twitter: @BeadedQuill
Facebook: BeadedQuill
In the Ocean: a year of poetry
Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys 
Shining in Brightness: Selected Poems, 1999 – 2012


Rain slaps against the windowpane.
Wee! Wee! It jests and jeers. 
Look at our ease of water-dash
and drip and fall
while you – Haha! –
neith’ eight nor sixteen lines have wrought
on that page. It’s all for nought,
despite your ink-filled fountain pen.

Yes, I see
the sky makes way its blue for grey
              carriers of short-lived sport. The assent
shows far more grace than any 
of those regiments of pressed attention 

marching in my head. Daily it is
to their silver – buttons, medals, lining;
to their praise, rigour and filing, 
my polishing by draft’s employed.

As @BeadedQuill, I tweet regularly about writing and the creative life, but infrequently about English rain.
BeadedQuill also has a Facebook page. Please visit and give us a ‘Like’.

In 2013, I compiled two books of collected poetry online. Click on the titles below:

Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys bundles together twenty poems offering insightson life, love and work for the Modern Boy.

In addition to presenting poetry written by BeadedQuill from 1999 to 2012, Shining in Brightness includes two essays on creative process.

Preceding seafaring that was not to transpire

She takes to heart her ship

That is upon their advice.


Before her and harbour,

In good forecast she sets

Friendship to the friend

As the anchor of relationships.


Later she squints through time’s telescope:

Fearful sad that lens. It magnifies

other ways winds blow.

Visit my first volume here for a preview of other poems.

Follow my tweets about life’s journey, writing and, occasionally, martial arts. I am @BeadedQuill

Another Summer’s Day

Image with thanks to http://postcardiva.blogspot.co.uk/2010/03/antique-bathing-beauty-postcards.html
Image with thanks to postcardiva.blogspot.co.uk

On the verge of blue,
it goes for grey
brings 16°C instead of heat.

A midday change of mind: the afternoon
turns kindly, warm
to swims in ponds and lemon sorbet

if it weren’t a Wednesday workday.

London, July 2013

Follow me on Twitter. I’m @BeadedQuill. At the moment I’m tweeting about occasional ambles on Hampstead Heath, dips in the Ladies’ Pond and London life in the summer warmth.

Preview my first volume of poetry, SHINING IN BRIGHTNESS