Scrabble and Gin

You are triple word score wonderful,
sitting in my Scrabble-tiled kitchen
and drinking my gin bottles dry,
one eye on the prize and the other,
my dear mother, on the chips in the oven
and it’s this that keeps us ever woven
in the fabric of each other’s selves –
steak and salad and chips and TV chilling,
endlessly refilling our need for each other,
cups of conversation overflowing
and love, ever growing and eternal.

Words, Once Read …

I wonder at the power of words, that – lit
by lamplight crescents – they might lie
beside my bed by night, book bound
and safe, inspiring no unease in me.

Yet, were I to lift the leather lid of this
Pandora’s box, releasing ghosts in the
gloaming, there would be no putting them
back into the words again – spirits unbound.

Manacled as the wordwights are, my nights
are safe and sinister-soundless. The cat purrs,
the boiler rumbles, the cars shush by on the wet
road beneath my darkened windowsill. Still.

But, should the cat raise his head in the dark
of the witching hour, caught in the power
of the night, I might remember the words
I released in the past – ghosts of bygone stories.


This was inspired by Megan Taylor’s deliciously haunting stories. I read them by daylight. She’s a superb Nottingham author and you can find out more about her here: About Megan Taylor


Riding Ain’t My Thing

Back in the saddle,
I realised that
riding ain’t my thing.

I left – my
saddle bags
draped about
my shoulders –

released my
weary mount and




the high road,
heavy load
all my own –
delightfully so –





The Red Lake

i dipped my toe in the red lake – easing in slowly –
and watched the waters cling about my legs

shame pushed me deeper
shame told me to get out

shame dyed the waters
and demanded they run clear

With You

I wish I’d been there
at the end
to spend
those last few moments
before we entered
the forever
of apartness.

You would not have known
I was there
to care
for and count
each last precious breath
before your death

but I would have.