January, bleak and dark,
The coldest of them all;
Your mantel is a cloak of white,
The New Year
It isn't something you can grasp,
It's something that you feel,
Overwhelming, all embracing,
Ravaged by time the tree in splendour stands,
Old and gnarled yet still a thing of beauty.
A troll has moved into my garden,
He loiters by the old oak tree;
I stare out of the window at
Deep red and luscious,
sweetness with the touch of tongue;
a pomegranate kiss.
Witches on broomsticks are flying tonight,
It’s All Hallows’ Eve and the devil is nigh;
Hanging in silence
Amidst the trees
Like crisp skin
Clinging to a bough:
Red, brown and dry.
Into battle with weary limbs
Heavy in the cold, wet mud,
Ragged clothes on jagged skin,
Fallen and carried with the breeze,
The scent of death across the seas.
Petals flowing like
We stand tall and proud,
never hide; yellow poppies
on the forest floor.
Delicate like silk,
reaching for the sky, poppies:
a white flag of truce.
Red poppies blooming
in the fields of home; alas,
our blood flows away.
After the darkness, struggling to make sense
Of what has gone and what is yet to be;
With breath of fire and clumsy feet,
The dragon padded down the street;
All he wanted to do was
There are fairies in my garden,
They wander everywhere;
If you believe in fairies,
You are sure
She wanted to experience death
And then return to life;
She thought that this would give her
She comes in but a fleeting moment,
Passing over like a breeze,
Transport for a different
The money: well it really counts for nothing,
The thousands that have gone along the way;
There are thoughts that make you tremble,
Thoughts that you can't say,
Thoughts that never leave