Wound up

Wound up


Two boys standing side by side


Framed sepia




A sunlit room and the tablecloths sheen


A deep green valour


They’d dug a level into the slagheaps side


Spoil slipped and filled the tunnel


Two boys died


A third survived


A blind sister


And a mother listen each day


To the sound of a clock unwinding

Living in complicated times.

It was in this place, those days, those years

When rivers ran black as night in days

A night sky lit red by coke ovens doors

And green fields drowned in the spoil

It was in this place hunger and poverty

Stamped, slammed feet on the ground.

Children starved, slept empty mouthed

Soup kitchens feed families the hungry

This place where malnutrition and disease

Looked in at every door every open window

And men marched to great cities to plead

To beg for assistance in a time of great need.

Men marched the length, breadth of the land

But were met by the cold eyes of indifference

She told the stories of those days those years

And when it was her time to pack and leave

She was small, just fourteen years of age

She was a small child travelling as a stranger

In those long days of the great depression

Think of a child travelling from a valley

To live in a great bankers Chelsea mansion

She spoke of survival, the cruel vicious lips

The vindictive unsmiling eyed housekeeper

Just because she didn’t speak a word of Welsh.

She worked as a maid for a florin a few pennies

To send back home to her family in the valley

To support her parents, her brothers, her sisters

And she was like so many valley children

It’s that indifference to others suffering

That gives the lie to excuses of ignorance.

When the cruelty became too much to bare

She left to work in a Rabbi’s home

As a young nanny to the children

She recalled the words of kindness

The different foods and the music

Sophie Tucker’s My Yiddishe Mama

We would laugh when she danced

A mischievous smile, those dark brown eyes

The slow easy dance movements

Memories of happy days remembered.

And she would recount listening

To the stories of families from Germany

Who’d escaped and told their stories

Of the treachery,  the butchery of Crystal Nacht

Of the barbarity and disappearances

And the wearing of yellow star badges

Our country pretended it knew nothing

When people were fleeing for their lives

It’s that indifference to others suffering

That gives the lie to excuses of ignorance.

And so the war came as it was bound to

And my mother packed her belongings

Her furniture into an old Pickford’s van

To make her way back to the valley

To bring up her child while her man

Was recalled to serve, to do his soldiers duty

Over five long years fighting in others lands.

She stood with a red cross box on the square

And at night worked in the arsenal soldering

The fuses on bombs while the blitz flames

Lit the skies over Bristol, Cardiff and Swansea

One day she was called her man was returning

The village decked out with ribbons and bunting

But he was not the man he was before the war

His temper a short fuse and his hands heavy

And so he found himself again in the silence

The solace of growing in a high walled garden

He never spoke of the war, never those medals

They were kept in the black box under his bed

Along with everything else that came before.

White Sheets


Each sheet rises in sequence to reveal the pathway.

To reveal you. Standing there.

You. Watching me.

In silence.

And the sheets hide you again as they fall

to hang without movement.

And then begin to unfurl and rise

as yet another gust pushes the white cotton out

and you are once again exposed.

You are standing watching me with that serious look.

Your eyes expressionless.

Studying me. And once more the whiteness

falls to cover where you are standing.

There is no movement now.

Just the brilliant whiteness falling on you like a curtain.


(Excerpt form the long poem “White Sheets”)


White sheets

DSC_0989.JPGAnd now rain drops.

The sound of a steady pita-pat.

The sound increasing

Rain falling

Suddenly a crescendo

White sheets spattered

Grey spots

On white sheets

Nearly dry white sheets

Water spatters

Water stained

White sheets

Turning grey

Hanging limp now

Hanging to the ground

And you are gone

Awake now in the darkness

Uncertain of the time

Lying listening

To the rain

Rain hitting against

The bedroom window.


(Excerpt “White sheets”)






The memories

Will not go.


As incoherent

As the rattle

Of an empty plate

The image of a bell

Of an empty tea cup

Turned upside down

Chimes intertwine

Merging for reasons

That maybe sublime

In their incoherence.


A bell chimes

Making time

An upturned cup

Signs no more

I am empty

I am full.


There is always time

There always was time

There always will be time

Time is time

But our time

Is a brief fluttering


We lose track

Of time

Unless we live

Our days

As if they are our last

Mere flutterings.


Dickery, dickery, dock

The mouse ran up the clock

The clock struck one

the mouse ran down

Dickery, dickery, dock.


Tick tock tick tock

tick tock tick tock.



(Third and final section of a long poem

The examination of time and its many modes.

A reflection on the experience of PTSD.)





Below the bridge



Steel sprung spans divide

Bridges where the homeless

And the addicts take refuge

When the weather is too hard

This place this wide span

Splinters of light divides

Day from wrapped silent people

And unheard wishes

Hope fears past lives

Rise in night time

While the river below roars

The passing of years

There is no knowing

No fortune telling

A soul is in pain






Silent now

There is a time

For healing.

Somethings wrong.


There’s something wrong

I’m pretty sure about it

But I’m having trouble

Putting my finger

On what it is right now.


At times I feel

As if my mind

Is being split in two

Maybe three, maybe four

It’s hard to keep tabs really.



Go to war

To make peace

But the war grows

It seems out of control.


So to contain

The growing war

That they are unable to contain

The politicians decide

To start another war.


Politicians are wise

They know what’s what

And what they are doing

So I consider

It must be part of a plan.


But one part

Of my brain

Maybe it’s the left

Asks if there really is a plan

Or whether its idiocy.


After all history

Teaches us lessons

Not to do

Certain things again

And politicians are wise.


Some politicians

Studied history

In Universities

With many spires

They must be wiser than most.


But another part

Of my brain

Says you can’t be serious

Politicians are oblivious

To the past.


So the world is at war

Its spreading

Wherever you look

Like some kind of fire

Nobodies  dousing  the flames.


But every fourth year

We have sacrifices

That  take our mind off  it

And makes us feel much better

And not think of war.


There’s something wrong

I’m pretty sure about it

I wish the wars would stop

And politicians show

That they are really wise.