New Necessities and Old Tradition

A month to watch a wreath decay.
Ribbons pulls friends home
to mothers, in towns away, ‘cross
hills and tracks with luggage
to escape being alone on Christmas.

Arthritic, brittle leaves dry out, and
leprous branches fall.
Crimson berries, cries of red
from cherub-cheeks stuffed
with glowing rosehips
finally lose their gloss –

before shrivelling, fading
and passing into hallmark shades of Winter grey.

Quiet, deserted houses in cities
light up again come new year,
when the ribbon unravels, new shoes
tread into cold buildings
to find unused candles, abandoned blankets
and corpses of wreaths by the bins.


Poem: Unlike the Clouds

My husband and I are on our way to Portsmouth for my Grandma’s funeral tomorrow. (Although right now we’re stuck in Guildford waiting for a coach without broken de-misters to take us the rest of the way.)

We set off really early this morning and I saw the sunrise as Joe slept. I think I got about 5 poems out of a few hours in silence and growing light.

Unlike The Clouds


From the top down, pupils squint to see,
blue-to –yellow, the pink-striped sky,
preaching a new mercies, new morning gospel
over the cold ground
soaking in dew,
grateful like it’s manna, and greener
for the waking of the rich hues
of the striped lines, parallel lines
in square sections.

A world away from the messy organisation
of A-roads and off streets,
roundabouts and junctions,
with people in vehicles
working too early
like the clouds,
but not appreciating
the light
thankfully here
again today.