The Choice and No Choice

The child shook and cried – as his emaciated body fought the knowledge

of a fever that choked the breath of his father and captured his mother‘s 

before oxygen came that can’t be given, because it is held in a place where 

the faces of the well smile as they selfishly return to a normality that is 

their’s but not his.


Not far distant a farmer loads his cart for marketing his hard worked

goods to sell in a place where covid is thriving and so thinking people 

have learned to stay at home. And now his goods will rot and his own

wife and children will die from starvation while somewhere a nation

heals but not his.


At a port there are ships that wait   for a call that will free them to 

travel home to their loved ones, but for now they wait, alone and 

lonely, deprived of human contact that comforts. Their thoughts 

turn to suicide and depression, while not far vaccinated sailors 

sail easily but not them.


The world has a centre which turns with us, and together we are

all held in thrall by its core giving us life and gravity; but human

hearts refuse to hear that we belong as one people, 

one planet,

one earth, 

one hope 

but instead we have those who choose to

take and those who can’t.


Some choose which hat, they choose which putrid water.

Some opt for a take away, they opt for what is thrown away.

Some prefer designer clothes and some wear passed on rags.

Some live in clean and tidy homes and others on the street.

A choice is a voice from opulence and should give others

a chance to have voices and make choices.

My Winter in Summer

I heard the crunch of tyres on the stony ground still,

as it stopped on the grassy verge and outpoured

chattering children and gathering grownups. Nearby 

the yapping of a small dog, running freely amongst 

the cars disturbing someones quiet moments, and

threatening to knock over the frail taking a walk

in the afternoon sunshine – after a long year sitting.

I felt the sting of tears as I stood alone, cherishing

the sights and sounds despite my sorrowing soul.


I look over the cliffs and see the the lumbering

shapes of cows stopping to munch at the green

grass, kept fresh by the rainy days, they chew 

slowly dripping saliva as they relish the juiciness,

and then they slowly subside onto a fresh patch

and resolutely chew their sweet cud while small

patterned calves run between them on their too

long wobbly legs, eating the grass and drinking

the much needed sustenance from the udders.


I saw overhead and heard the call of Choughs

as they jounce through the air showing off their

joy at the world. A greenfinch zee zees in the

blackthorn and a charm of goldfinches swarm

around the dandelion clocks chirping. High

on a tree a blackbird calls and then a thrush 

puffs out his breast and sings a song to warn

of coming storms and yet the joy in his heart

tumbles from his beak into a my bleak living.


I walk on and hear a child cry with delight at the

sight of the choices of ices and eyes wide they

look at labels of chocolate, honey, blueberry til

a decision with precision, a waiting smile, hands, 

ready to receive the precious taste of holidays 

and special events that have long since been 

a rarity in their vicinity and well merited now,

melting into small mouths and reviving them

with sugars and colours and tastes and smells.


Everywhere there are daisies and buttercups

brightening the brown earth where nature 

produces orchids early and harebells late,

bluebells to mirror a sky of blue on earth,

garlic to fill the air with a pungent delight

and blackberries flowering, preparing the

fruit of jams, jellies, crumbles and pies.

All through them the gorse spikes shine 

gold, spreading their honey scent wide.


I walk on with winter in my wretched heart, and 

return towards my home poignantly pondering,

wondering, and wanting to applaud the joy

and hope in all those happy sticky faces, 

and gritty shoes and wished again that my

little ones were here amongst them – and not

locked away by a vile virus that blocks them. 

mocks my aching empty arms and I look at

at the summer through a veil of trickling tears.

The Virus and World Domination

A fiercesome thing is lockdown,

it growls around us like a roaring

wind, that tears the fabric of lives

apart and turns the hope of Spring

into a winter of depression, and a

lesson that sows seeds in a nation

that seeks to avoid exhalation of

drops of a virus; that violently takes

from us our hopes, and fears, and 

numbs the emotions with the tears,

of disempowerment and the lament

will be heard for years when still it

will bite the crust from hard earned 

folks and their childrens’ hands.


Each person of power walked a 

road of holding might, and a fight

to show they meant to stop its

dividing and riding on the backs

of the innocent, who lack the test,

to show it has them in their grip

and will use them to slip through

to kill, to maim and harm as many

as it can, and monster mutations 

ensure that antibodies are over-

come to win world domination. 


But the divisions and revisions;

the deciders allow doubt to slide

in, trying to slow its pace are in

every way arrogant and hesitant

and ignorant of the resistance

that an unseen enemy has been

able to choose in the absence

of the will to close our borders,

as New Zealand has done and

there the virus has no home, a

whisper and it will be shut down

because there they knew their

enemy and faced reality in time,

choosing the common good first.

A childhood lost.

Their little hands reached out and touched the sensitive screen,

no longer ably remembering the last time that they had been

on that squishy sofa. or sat on her knee, all warm and snuggled 

while adults struggled with sleepy eyes, after a hilarious time

running and laughing, hugging, catching until the loud chime

of the clock tells its tale of supper and bubbles in baths, and

eye closing, feeling cosy drifting to cherished dreams in a land

where Grannies and Grandads, cousins and friends are near,

right by them and they reach out small hands and they’re there.


that is far off ,

and away beyond the harsh realities of Covid 

where Grannies and Grandads are no longer strangers that 

exist inside a screen but are real people who laugh and hug,

where there is a warm welcoming home to rush into, arms

held out, long loving cuddles, and snacks, and adventures 

and not the nightmare of isolation from friends, and the loss

of a childhood, where children make chums and champions.


Arbitrarily drawn, each brace is something else’s

place and loss as fences are built and concrete 

is laid for solutions to stop intrusions, incursions

and contusions for those who try. There is a

body who believes in their right and might for

their own bipartisan brain to build visible walls.


A golden butterfly gentled hangs on barbs

and flowers and plants, animals and insects

pass through the barrier as the blithely grow

and go, procreate and sow their genes not

knowing lines drawn on maps, nor barbed 

wire, concrete nor gates and gullies and gun –

placements; dreamed into being by the very

greedy, money hugglng, gold hungry rich.


While the poor hold onto their integrity and

hospitality is something of particularity and

honourably they welcome the governments’

aliens -as neighbours, giving them harbours,

felling the blocks of fear and injustice, not

lives defined by racism, enclosed, ice frozen

but wise to the lies and aware of the rare truth.

Death to the Precious Earthworm

Like a centipede without legs it pushes it’s way

through the thick earth, unseeing, opting to avoid

stones and wood that silently strew its darkling trail,

chewing on Autumnal leaves, debris of long ago.

Finding new ways and rising to drink from sweet

spring rains, it noses its way through he roots 

of wonders that enjoy its bounteous secretors.


A bird waits, head tipped listening, beak tapping

and the innocent worm hangs in the beak ready

feed the gaping abyss of nestlings, ever hungry

and so the worm builds their bodies and gives

them flight over the verdant earth as cultured,

changed by its turgid turning of the hidden ’til

composted it sustains a complexion of creation.


Every second it is digesting and reinventing the

sustenance that builds until humans sprayed on

chemicals that kill, chemicals to will the plants

into a life that man chooses;  the worm slowly

absorbs poisons and artifices of the populace

and dying takes with it the gift it brought, life,

If only we’d eyes to see and the wisdom of worms