People

THE PATCHWORK QUILT.     Across my bed silently it lies, That patchwork quilt, Its weight is warming, The colours vibrant Cathedral-like stained glass, It many stories tell. Each piece so delicately made It could be sewn By the Tailor

Two dead blackbirds either side a door A mother lying on her bed, who isn’t any more, A chaos of compassion, a hurricane of fear A wheel of spinning memories, all too near.   Children plunging knives into vacant souls

For Hope Bourne   I visited Exmoor in April, I descended into coombs Where neat villages nestle from the west winds. I rolled up onto the dark moor Whose gorse bushes shine like beacons. I watched the tiny streams tumble

There’s an Alchemist living is the West Country Near a hill with a lonely tree, His orchards spill past the lone tree hill, As far as the eye can see.   There’s an Alchemist living on a lay line, Drawing

LOUISE FIROUZ a Tribute ‘Come with me.’ she said. As the wind whirled the sand into words. ‘Come with me’ as the flying scarf wrapped her words with softness. Come with me and my horse into the scented river of

Petit vedette, restaurant owner of Haynes Bar, Rue Clauzel, Paris No one will ever know who you really are, From where you watch the world pass by Is not your piece of street. Bur one day when you’re gone People

To John Baldock, on a visit to his grave 9th June 2020. I drive along the rolling road, Beneath the sun between the trees, Familiar are the turns and hills My life with you threw us upon, The winding way

Upon a hill I stood its memories overgrown by time, The peace belayed my presence for One hundred years ago a man was here, Close to my heart, stood trench deep and under fire. Then this peaceful world roared like