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…


Into the Light

Steps of stone
Stretching ever upwards…
Yet there,
In the distance,
A light appears
Casting the shadows behind
Illuminating the path
My feet must take.light

Six Word Saturday – Herald

From Winter storm debris – Spring trumpets…?20140301_162305 (2)

Seven Word Sunday – Blessed









Goodnight My Baby Boy

I don’t know what to say…
Shall I? Shan’t I? Will he back to his old self tomorrow? He looks quite perky!
His character has completely changed – obviously he is pain. He has lumps all over him – the vet says cancerous. He gets so worked up and petrified when away from home, surely his murmerous heart can’t cope. He hasn’t chewed his new toys to pieces like he always does. Hardly a nibble really…for him…his teeth must hurt him and one has dropped out…
His tail is sort of wagging!
He’s shivering and so am I.
She wants to hold him while they ‘do’ it.
He just flops…

R.I.P. my Scooby…are you running across that giant meadow in the sky without a care in the world alongside my first boy Dylan…?Scooby as a youth

Clutching Straws

February 2013
Yesterday my car moaned and groaned. Wearily plodding up every slight incline, she protested in the loudest voice which sent both our blood pressures rising at an alarming rate. I took her to the car hospital – I didn’t have insurance for that but still they took pity on her and took her in saying, “Leave her overnight, we’ll see what we can do.”
Today she races around; less like the old boiler that she is and more like the Spring chicken that she used to be, and guess what? It’s actually quite contagious!



February 2013

Excavating the remains of my life, I wonder what will be uncovered, whether it  should be left buried in the sands of time. I use a soft brush to gingerly clean around the bones, sweeping away the earthy debris to bring to light what has long been hidden. The more that I work, the braver I grow. As more and more of my life is exposed, I feel myself coming back to life, starting to breathe again…

Voluntary Youth in Asia or even Africa!

February 2013
My eldest rings me and casually drops into conversation that she has decided to do a gap year in a third world country at the end of her degree. She’s decided on Uganda. I pick myself up from the floor in time to catch the end of her revelation. Although flabbergastedly quite proud of her new-found humanitarian streak, I think that maybe she needs to investigate this a bit more.
She likes her home comforts, the comforts that she doesn’t get in this home…tea at the Dorchester, the odd ‘varsity rowing club ball and hob-nobbing with celebrities at Mahiki nightclub. I try to picture her making her way through the dusty streets in her designer sandals and carrying out her endless cleansing routine at the village water pump. I might be doing her a grave disservice but I fail miserably.

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Art is our home. This door is open, always, to all, and yet permits not the entry of draft or rain. The doused may find solace, and repose, in the warmth of this hearth. For the sparks of these words - the spectres conjured by its incandescence - are a family whose love is unconditional, and will ever blaze, kindling within us the faith to weather these tempests. The ashes may then be scattered upon the winds - to ignite the lost, and unify our souls as one, in unquenched illumination; to be the light which guides us home, through the darkest of eclipse.


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