It doesn’t have to be like this


when we share so much

It doesn’t need to be like this


We all have another way




Summer day on the hill


Summer day on the hill

A short walk out on the hill today

Making my way up the country lane

A mile and a half there and back

The Ash trees are weighed

With bundles of samara

The rowan berries

Filling beginning

To slowly change

To that bright orange

Hawthorns stacked

With umbles of berries

And the beginnings

Of that red blush

That will fill thrushes

During winter days

And oaks show

The small green acorns

That will fill and grow

And squirrels and crows

Will feed on them

When days turn cold

And the old crab trees

On that wet lane corner

crowded with tiny

red tinged apples

An old tree fallen

Lies on its side

With an eye watching.




Listening to the soughing wind



Out on the mountain watching the rain move in

From the Severn Channel thinking I was caught

Walking boggy ground on the old Miskin Estate

But I stood still watching as the rain grey shroud

Passing me by covered the dim domed lower hills

I found myself listening out there to the wind blow

Soughing its sighs through the conifer plantation

Blasted and flattened by a New Year gale that felled

The woodlands on the hill tops and frosted high slopes

So that in the morning it looked as if a battle or war

had broken out while we slept off  the New Year party

It was a scene of desolation walking through forests

Like some Paul Nash painting of shattered Ypres trees

Fifteen years later the trees have still not recovered

The walls of the estate built to enclose common land

Have fallen too and are now used in places to make paths

Where the land is wet and poached by cattle hooves

But although these long dry stone walls have tumbled

We have different kinds of walls built to close us in

This relentless psychologised industrial consumerism

That inflicts its message on the first day of a child’s birth

You need, you want and you can’t ever get enough.




DSC_7291In the “White Goddess” Robert Graves wrote that  poetry  – “Once a warning to man that he must keep in harmony with the family of living creatures among which he was born….it is now a reminder that he has disregarded the warning, turned the house upside down by capricious experiments in science, philosophy and industry, and brought ruin upon himself and his family.” (From The call of the wild: Paul Kingsnorth The Guardian Essay Saturday 23rd July 2016).

Time takes time


There is no measure

For the correct time

To heal and recover.


So now healing

Is by measure

To heal and recover.


There is a quick fix

A couple of weeks

To heal and recover?


There is no measure

For the correct time

To heal and recover.


The soul ah the soul

The time to heal

The time to recover.


We talk of the mind

No talk of the soul

And the time to recover


There is no measure

For the correct time

To heal and recover.


We talk of the mind

No talk of the spirit

And the time to recover.


Wounds not visible

Wounds not measurable

Wounds not vocalised.



Time takes time

In its own time.





I’m old

By others standards


And a life lived



I dispute my years

I don’t fit the new

My gauge isn’t set the same

How you feel

Is what really matters


I see adverts for new

and young poets

I am now silenced

In what I write



But through my life

I have done great things

Helped heal a child

So many children

Over the years


Spoken to the soul

Of another

And another

Urged a smile

And reinstalled hope

In so many



I have never been silent

I live with my eyes

Wide open