A wren came to my house.

Shocked to be there, 

on the floor, 

by my working desk.

For a fleeting moment

we were aware, 

wren and I,

and then it flew.


I found it by my bed,

not a mark on the glass 

of the garden door.

My little wren, so still, 

stunned perhaps I hoped,

waiting for a sign,

for tiny wings to flutter

and fly, but wren was gone.


In cupped hands,

I held it’s delicate press

of wings and flesh, and

placed it in the empty nesting box,

above the hedge,

a more familiar place for Wren.

September in th…

September in the City

Approaching Clapham Junction,

The train slows.

Across the electric divide, 

clouded windows of city grime,

sky-scraper concrete and

bright neon signs.

‘Mind the gap’.

The recording repeats.

Carriages empty their crowded seats,

cases on wheels, 

rucksacks on broad backs,

travellers in smart suits with

Iphones and Ipads.

Sweat-shirts and joggers 

plugged into Ipods,

take-away coffees,

turnstile spins.

The daily routine

leads them like radar,

schedules and time tables

change like the weather.

Four flights down

to underground gloom

on moving stairs

to a bullet fast tube.

Top speed to Victoria, 

a short hop from Green Park,

and flowers in buckets,

the scent lost in traffic.

News stands with post-cards, 

students with maps, 

tourists with cameras, 

Union Jack flags.

‘The end is nigh.’ 

Said the man on a soap-box.

‘Take time to repent, 

save your life, not your time’.

But no-one is listening, 

pavements are streaming,

in the heat of September,

commuters are rushing 

to lunch-hour through traffic,

past police on patrol.

I’m walking to meet you, 

backwards through time.

We greet with a hug,

spend time catching up,

then study the map

as we walk to Belgravia,

an oasis of calm in tropical heat.

Dodging buses and taxis,

we arrive at our past.

Was it here? Was it there? 

We are in the right square,

but memories are lost

in the changes we meet.

We head for the pub, 

a bijou retreat, 

smile for the camera

to capture the mood, 

with promises to keep,

and friendship renewed.


Winged HorsesTr…

Winged Horses

Traffic lights are red.

The radio broadcasts jingles

that could get into your head.


Across the way,

two horses face each other,

as still as a day with no wind.


In the silence of morning light,

winged horses take flight,

lasso my willing soul.



Three lane traffic speeds along the M4.

From the car radio,

the melody of Clare de Lune

creates a daffodil in my auto-pilot mind.

Emerging from winter sleep,

in graceful growth with the classical notes,

it stretches and sways,

in awe of the world first seen,

until a trumpet of sunburst yellow,

short and complete.