The joys of early motherhood,

As the bump begins to show,

The heartache of a daughter,

Having to let go.

Somewhere in between,

There’s a sense of quiet calm.

A sense of only watching,

From a distance, safe from harm.

The Monument

You know you’re nearly home when you see The Monument.

It wasn’t just any monument. It was always our monument. The stories of the lord and the song about the worm didn’t matter. It was ours. Our name was on it. It was etched in stone over a hundred years ago. Did he ever imagine what sort of legacy he was leaving behind? Did he know that we’d all look up and think of him? He must have been a right scallywag to carve his name there. How many of us have stood there and pressed our hands to his name? There are so many of us now, grand children and great grandchildren and more besides. All bound together and set in stone.

As featured on Pen To Print in Write On! Showcase on 12th January 2022

Brass Tiger

I wondered where you came from, 
When did you arrive?
I wondered who had bought you,
And set you up on high.
I wondered what you saw, 
When you watched her every day.
I wonder if you heard her,
When she sang her cares away.
I wonder if she saw you, 
The way I see you now.
Did she look at you and wonder,
How the future would turn out?
I look at you and wonder, 
If she held you like I do.
I wonder if she sees me,
When I sing her old songs too.

A Weedy Lawn

Wet-the-bed the Old wives tale, 
Our fuzzy buzzy friends favourite food

Little white petals floating on the wind, 
he loves me, he loves me not

Gold to shine under your chin,
Spread on your toast for breakfast

Surprise of purple in the green
Find the lucky four

A prickly tea, to cleanse and calm
The broad leafed soother growing nearby 

A burst of life in overgrown grass
A messy garden
A weedy lawn