Early tomatoes
On the window ledge
Slowly turning red
In summer sunshine.
Fresh mint and parsley
Waiting for potatoes
Steaming and buttered
In the willow dish.
Full-blown Peace petals
Fall on the table
Near raspberries fresh
Picked for jam making.
Gingham curtains blow
Sunshine and shadows
While wasps explore
The scraps saved for Puss.
Grandfather spreads out
His morning paper,
Puts on his glasses
And starts his day.
Category Archives: Poetry
Daddy is ill
Daddy is ill upstairs in bed,
So we mustn’t make too much noise,
We mustn’t play Indians or gallop and shout
Or fight over each other’s toys.
He really is poorly, he doesn’t look well,
He hasn’t been downstairs for days,
And Mummy’s so busy going upstairs and down
Carrying newspapers, bottles and trays.
We do go and see him and pussy comes too,
She loves climbing over his bed;
But we mustn’t bounce like we do when he’s well,
Every sound of it goes to his head.
We help him get rid of the fruit on his tray
And the sweets that he has in his drawer;
We try to be thoughtful and loving and kind
And hope Mummy brings him some more.
We lend him our Teddy and Golly and dolls
Which we tuck down beside him in bed,
Or to stop him being bored we bring him our books
Which we place in a pile near his head.
We know he loves reading and we feel it will help
If, instead of newspapers and things,
We coax him to read all our favourite tales
Of mermaids, bad witches and kings.
It can’t be too serious, the doctor’s not been,
We wish he would come all the same,
With his little black bag and stethoscope bright
We would let him take part in our game.
We’ll be glad when Dad’s better, it shouldn’t be long,
For we’re trying very hard to be good;
It’s so much more fun when he’s healthy and strong
And plays with us as daddies should.
Mummy shares our impatience, she’ll be glad when it’s through,
In the meantime she’s doing her best;
And Dad will be glad when at last he gets up,
And can go back to work for a rest.
Of all Faith’s gifts
Of all Faith’s gifts, the one I sorely miss
Is that quiet lifting of the mind and heart
In unselfconscious praise, the soul of prayer,
Those inner songs of joy, all gathered up
And, with a child-like faith, deposited
With love and longing in the lap of God.
Where else and to which ear can I proclaim
The beauty of the mountains under snow,
The faithfulness and glory of the stars?
To whom commit for healing and support
The ailing body or the anguished mind,
To whom entrust the passing of our days?
The Psalmist’s songs are mine yet in my mouth
The words ring hollow and the blessings vain.
When intellect denies the heart’s desire
And reason takes its pure but ruthless path,
The anthems die away and in their place,
Like ivy on a wall, the silence grows.
May 1989
I have a homing instinct for the stars 
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