A family of pigeons

have made their home on our roof.

I watch them from the garden

as they fly off in great arcs and return.

Somewhere deep down inside

I know how to do that, how to fly.

I don’t mean that I can imagine it,

I mean that I remember it,

it’s stored somewhere

deep in the marrow of my bones;

the shape of my wings,

how it feels to be lifted by the air,

how to bank, turn and stall.

I know beyond doubt,

I once had a body

that could fly.











Weather Report



Yesterday was hot,

in the evening the sunset

was the most spectacular

I have ever seen around here

and this morning the dawn was beautiful.

They say that today is going to be even hotter.

Inside my breathing is slow and easy

and the ocean is calm.

The breeze doesn’t stop at my face,

it moves through me and on to a shoreline far away.

I am in a London garden, watching gulls fly overhead

but my soul, my soul is lost at sea, waiting for night to fall

so it can navigate by the stars.


One Day


One day
all this will be gone,
you, me, the buildings,
the bridges, the paintings,
the books and the poetry,
it will all be just another
seam, compressed
deep down in the
earth’s crust.

beautiful life forms
inhabit the planet then
will have long since adapted
to whatever we have
left behind.

As for us,
we’ll be somewhere else,
an energy or a whisper of light,
still reflecting on what we did
and how we did it.

The Way



In how many
footsteps do I follow?

This path,
this human path
is worn so deep
you would think
it impossible to stray
but so many of us do.

I for one.

Perhaps by
doing so we make
the path a little wider
for those who come after,
or perhaps we are just fools.

The path itself may be ancient
but each soul who walks it
walks it anew.




The houses around my garden
reflect sound, the sound
of distant traffic and trains,
the sound of aircraft overhead,
especially when they are silent themselves
and the people in them are still asleep.


They reflect light too,
moonlight, starlight and
the light of the rising sun.


Each spring the light
of the late afternoon sun
catches the window of a house
some two hundred metres away.


Deep and shining gold
the light hangs like a picture,
a perfect square of gold
on the wall opposite where I sit.


For those few minutes
my house isn’t a house anymore,
it’s part of a great stone circle.




I read the poets,
they spoke to my heart,
not my every day heart, my deep heart,
the one down by the dark river.

Then one day, for just a moment
I felt the angel of peace settle
on my aching shoulders.

I wrote down what happened
and when I read it I found
I was reading a poem.

Now I am fully literate,
I can both read and write.




Out here in the
garden this morning
it’s dark, misty and quiet,
just the sound of the trains
and the traffic in the distance,
nearby, the cry of a raven.

All around me I can hear
the leaves of the ash tree falling
a golden rain, a golden carpet
soft under my feet,
and all is peace.

When I go home
my soul will be imprinted with
the shapes of these London houses,
dark in the light of the dawn,
chimneys like ancient battlements
along the terraces,
and out here behind them
an oasis of trees, roses
and prowling cats.