Do you ever
have an ‘in body experience’?
That sensation of being what you actually are;
being carried around
atop a tower of bone, muscle
and general wobbly bits.
On witnessing an assault
Though not generally a cruel person, the ease
with which she flicked the cat from the chair
had a certain barbaric, triumphant quality.
The family, ailurophiles to the core, experienced shock
as if a gardener had beheaded a favourite rose
or a priest displayed Tourette’s.
The feline was certainly not amused.
As I write, a bee, seeking sanctuary from the cold March weather,
lands an inch from my pencil.
He looks bit bedraggled; perhaps that’s what he thinks of me
though I’m probably too big to be seen.
I presume ‘He’ because it doesn’t look like a queen.
Up and down, he does a few press-ups, warming himself.
And off he goes,
looking no doubt for early dandelions or forsythia,
a rescue from this too early awakening.
Clearly not impressed by my writings.
On finding a neglected memorial to a forgotten war …
The bugle’s long faded call took with it all promise of eternal memory.
Names carved in stone often lasted not much longer than the generation
that composed them, causes became historical and worse, academic,
families adopted new priorities and the dead faded into unrecognised
faces staring from indistinct sepia cards.
Perhaps it was for the best: the solutions to conflicts were invariably the
result of pragmatism and essentially found in the present with an eye to
The fallen remained beyond all wanting; such is the nature of lives and