The wind flattened our tent in April, cancelled a flight in July. First world problems eh?

So I’m lying face down in the grass and if I were ten you’d say I was sulking? So here’s a bit of fun, some shameless R.E.M. plagiarism and a remembering.


I’m looking for four leaf clovers,
finding dozens of them.
Only they’re not really,
they’re just threes,
leaning on their friends.

There was another summer, sitting with my Gran.
Seeing who could spit cherry stones the furthest.
Her; delicate, petite, proper; heels and earrings.
Me; “a big girl”, all sorts of awkward, no earrings yet.
And I found a four leaf cover;
pressed it between the pages of 1984 in 1986
and had no proper wishes.
There was nothing that I lacked.

Today I’m sad, because I’m tired,
I’ve a cancelled flight and so many wishes,
great mountains of the bloody things,
untidy, ragged, heartfelt.

But these three leaved clovers, they’re the thing?
Like friends, everything I have leans on something.
Not wishing, but building, this day from yesterday.
So I find my best flat shoes and fresh earrings.
And pick a three leaf clover;
and I’ll borrow, seek inspiration,
mix ‘truth, heart and garbage’
and remember
there is nothing that I lack.



Road Home

Road Home

Road Home

photoLeaves and walls and windows spin,
a jigsaw broken by a falling sun.
the road home,
a breaking storm.
I wonder what we began.

There is no calm centre,
power and colour after.

Yesterday isn’t the journey,
no lies built or truths undone.
was a right.
Fantasies told
of tomorrow’s plan.

There is no map,
you are not measured.

Lamps fail and thunder’s quick,
duty’s a dead engine.
are a dream.
I never woke
and never wanted.

This is no ending,
our long day’s after.

Your warm hands drive the day
and frame day-glo memory.
with you,
mountains fall.

I have no use for cool.



When you think about it, strawberries wear their hearts on the outside.  Like we do, at our best.

This one’s for Nanas and Grans, those folk young-berries-wild-strawberry-wooden-background-31464626who were solace when our small worlds seemed unfair.  (And for my Nan, in particular, who used to fetch her glasses before cleaning the graffiti from the pub toilets.)



Strawberries are the whole of England;
hard won from birds, slugs and a faint sun.
A reluctant fruit, seldom at its best,
yet more glorious than any other.

They’re seduction’s art full on; no bars.
Shape, scent, bite; gritty reproduction.
Lewd in their urgency, loud-as-Friday;
the pub wall graffiti of our five a day.

In the weeks before your death,
you were tired; the shops too far.
I came for tea, both of us unknowing.
You’d still forced the walk to town.

I was pregnant, nauseous, hungry.
Food that wasn’t properly dead
gave me dreams of sickness,
hallucinations of illness and anxiety.

You served strawberries and ice cream.
The only ice cream COOP sold.
Toffee chip with sauce, half defrosted.
In bowls that matched with perfect spoons.

The toffee was industrial; an iron oxide hue.
And the strawberries were getting high,
the process of full on ester decomposition,
running with juice and seeds falling.

Every strawberry since, each outside seed,
remembers all the meals we shared.
But mostly that one, that wet June,
in those weeks before I learned to cry.

Barbarian Flower

From my walk this morning, a sketch-poem.

Barbarian Flower

22093_670364659764734_5614285125987475435_nYou invade and are everywhere at once,
the colour of speed, love and sacrifice.

The street and field; all points are yours.
A cold morning, this flower saved from falling.

Your dark eye is filled with sleeping seeds,
The endless possibilities of a garden dreaming.