Stirring Stuff

My spoon is rather…


How can I


The pleasure it brings

To the touch –



I cannot resist


That silken curve

Down my jawline –

Itself, admittedly,

Not as smooth

Nor as firm

As once it was

But still able

To luxuriate

In the


Of this miraculous piece

Of Spoon-Smith’s


Hard to resist

Once the initial


Has been made.

Then back to

My thumb


The barely

Hollowed wood…

Hallowed wood

A feast for

All the senses;

My eyes follow

The richly diverse

Tones of the grain

Which seems to


The silken tresses

Of an expensively

High-lighted head;

I close my eyes

And inhale

The distinctively

Subtle scent

Of the

Tung Oil-moisturised

Skin –

Ah… stirred by a

Wooden spoon!

wooden spoon 20150127_192731_resized

A Bed of Flowers

An image

Of the season’s

First daffodils

Brings a lump to

My throat.

A rebirth

That springs from the soil,

A smile to brighten

The winter gloom –

A reminder

That life

Is not


By being within

The earth.

A yellow glow

Suffuses the

stone cross

And the lantern



When the way

Is dark.

Sleep well,

On this

Mothering  Sunday

Your Mother

Brings you flowers…


Little Painty Spider

Little Painty Spider.
Your Mum and sibling
To the white expanse
With its artexed craters
And valleys, to hide.
You though
Didn’t realise the
Roller was coming your
Way…nor did I. Then.
Too late.
Nevermind. You are now
Truly part of the
As your kind have long
Hoped for.
Gone but not forgotten.

Little Painty Spider


Well Matured

My mum was 18 (again!) yesterday

Knowing how she didn’t want anyone to know she was 80 last year (her friends all thought she was much younger and she didn’t want to disillusion them) we reversed the candles on the cake and there you have it – childish glee … but the camera angle kind of gives the secret away doesn’t it?
Well Matured

Party Spirit

Glimpsed from a car, a group of revellers
party there on the green.
An abundance of teenagers turn to
look as I approach from
the camouflage of the hedged tennis courts.
And I do come armed
with an apology… and sweets… and drinks
for the party-goers.
I am greeted with a hug and I leave
with a tear-draped eye and
an awareness of how fragile life is.
Birthday celebration.
For one who is no longer around to
celebrate it herself.

Image: me not


Little furry buzzy bee
I saw you immobilized
There by the French doors and I
Thought I may be able to
Revive you with a little
Sugar water – I do hope
I didn’t drown you instead…

Buzzy Bee


We dance and clap and cheer and gaze in wonder as rainbow-coloured globes drift…no fling, themselves on kamikaze missions across the field. How quickly, quickly the bubbles burst – sending droplets of moisture to cool the sun-scorched skin. Hands reach up to aid them on their quest as the sun sinks lower behind the stage and clouds gather to herald the fast approaching twilight.

A sudden chill descends on bare shoulders but soon muffled in windcheaters, sweatshirts and hastily snatched up picnic rugs, the revellers kick up their heels and do the Can Can – audience participation taken to new heights when told to all jump as one on the count of four… we leap and sing until we are hoarse, then exhausted from chilling out in the brisk country air, we retire to our cocoa at the unholy hour of just past eight. Decadence reigns amongst the silvering heads of legions of former New Romantics and New Wavers and Ska and Punk aficionados.

Next year we vow to be be donning fancy dress like many others, but for this year we came as we are now and not as we once were. Celebrating the past is good as long as we live for today and value our wisdom in recognising that an era past has given us older and wiser heads to nod and smile with.



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