A poem I created re-reading his letters to me, written in 1966, as he mentored my teenage poetry. How lucky I was to have such
Letters from a long-suffering poet, 1966 Yesterday, I found eight faded letterslying loose in the covers of a battered red diary.Letters, some fifty years old,
The poet closed her bookand led us Brodie-girlsin tense excitementto walk out of school gatesto break the rulesand dive into the dark.The castle ruin emerged
On a lazy Sunday afternoona bloom of girlsmellow yellow on the warm green lawn,weave daisy chains of hopeblow dreams in the wind,as the boys preen
The day Teal ate your hatyou weren’t best pleased.He chewed it well, that dear dog,his sloppy yellow jaw gnawing awayat the brown felt and trim.
Entering the silence,a stillness of concentration,quiet shuffling of pages turning,a scrape of chair leg,the ‘tut’ or ‘sssh’of tetchy adultswaiting to be disturbed. Then the tiptoed
I’m sorry that I broke your model plane?You’d left it on the desk in your bedroom.I snuck in therewhile you were in the garden. Thing
The oak tree overshadows the drive.I walk across the gravel,brown Start-rite sandalsand grey socks rucked around the ankle. The front door is wooden. Creaks.Teal, our
At the End of the Day It was the end of the day,the lift doors were closing,the office commute began here.I pulled my Portobello furscruff