Wishing Well

Will you pick me for your team?
Will you, will you, will you?

Will you listen to to my dreams?
Will you, will you, will you?

Will you call if I fall ill?
Will you, will you, will you?

Will you help me to be still?
Will you, will you, will you?

Will you love my crooked smile?
Will you, will you, will you?

Will you want to stay a while?
Will you, will you, will you?

Will you stop the closing door?
Will you, will you, will you?

Will you come again for more?

Big Foot

It paid no respect, would

not do as we said, just

kept jumping around, as if

beans worked its head. It

was only a toy, but

it thought it was real, and

was acting as though it

could think, grow and feel. We

didn’t quite know what

its next move would be if

we told it to go, so

we asked it for tea. Now it

sits down for meals, though

we know it can’t eat, but

I guess we’re quite fond of

the thing with big feet.

Waltz – 3/4 time

I’ve found a

rhythm which

helps me with


also en

hances the

vast world I

know and see:


I hold the

hands of my

friends and my


lifted by

music and

kind loving



We travel

one two three

through life’s di


dancing with

gusto through

fear and ad



Some of you

might like to

dance in my

footsteps the

waltz is such

fun and it’s




Soon you will be to me

absent as moon trees

distant as a lonely prayer on ancient lips

intangible as a strong forgotten taste


Like an improbable hypothesis

snatched from the breath of a wayward student

you will wing it into the theoretical landscape

shape shifting then

less now than nothing

leaving only dust motes and regret

to mark your passing.

Cyclist – for Bradley Wiggins, Shane Sutton and cyclists everywhere

From the moment he slid into a saddle

he wide straddled the earth on a thing without wings

aerodynamically bound to conquer contours

race rivers hurtle hammer and shift he had the gift of speed

the physical need to flex his legs and work a precision machine

feet flashing bending bridging the cadence of his heart changing

to meet the cardiovascular thrumming of the pedal fall and rise


as if he rode in the slipstream of the gods.


Let’s do it while the early light is pale and cold,

when our soft and slippered feet still ache with sleep,

before the awesome day grows in its wisdom, old,

and we no longer can each other’s company keep,

I’ll go down stairs and turn the oven hot and high,

mix sweet with cocoa, rich with buttered love,

you follow, rubbing sleep from night time eyes,

drawn by morning’s promise from the room above,

we’ll sit together with our cups of steaming tea,

til when we feel the waiting world can’t do us harm,

with half a chocolate cake for you, and half for me,

a slice of happiness to keep us safe and warm.

Dark Earth

I am the underbelly –

the inside of nothing: unfixed, undefined

not to be touched, done to, undone

nor enough included to be cast aside.


I am after the last thought

beyond the undiscovered isle behind dying eyes

beneath a broken tongue which may not speak

in the well of deep behind angry teeth.


I am postliminary in-consequence

dangling over the lip of impossible.


Yet still,  I am!

Caged – buy free range

If feather-bare we toured our plight

round Britain’s eleven thousand and seventy two

wire free mile circumference bringing eggs to you

we wing-clipped osteoporosised amputees

struggling along in twos and threes

to bring you scrawny chicken stew

we wouldn’t make a pretty sight

we know you wouldn’t like to see

so we’ll crouch in A4 cages without light

to lay those guilty eggs tonight.

For those who wait

When it is time
quiet and easy I’ll draw near
perhaps to our secret place
in playful echoes of the old bridge?
or shall we spill into silver waves?
perform shadow dances for a pink goodnight?

If the beastly fire will not be lit for now
if lights are dim and cruel time rattles
draw up a comfy chair, find a kinder place
I’ll not forget, so rest and don’t you fret
it simply isn’t time

not yet, not just yet.


You understand when I fill my bath with acorns
and happily crunch through wash time

You comfort me when I talk to the mirror
and cry because no-one is there

You nod in agreement when I put my coat on backwards
so I don’t have to leave for the office

You accept there is a bit of my hair I never brush
because I fell out with it years ago

You are my chosen few
and I will try to understand you too.