Writing
Here are three poems from Ffenestri, published 2026 (see Books page for purchasing info).
Remembrance
How many men can you lose in a day?
In a week, in a month, in a year?
And a hundred years on, who’d give a damn?
Consciences? Perfectly clear.
So, we smoked, sang, and slept, then slept some more
Dreaming of those left behind
Who dreamt of us too, in their warm feather beds
Of the halt, and the mad, and the blind.
If the Hun didn’t get you, the bloody lice would
Or the cold, or the fear, or the mud
But we’d wait, hold our tongues, keep our thoughts to ourselves
With no talk of the dead or the blood.
When finally it came, the whistle’s long blast
Sent a stab, made of ice, to the heart
‘Helmets secured! Bayonets in place!
Chins up! Chests out! Play your part!’
And that’s when it started, and ended for some,
The whites of their eyes turned to red
The name of their mother, their sweetheart, their wife,
The very last word that they said.
And for what, can you tell me, did they forfeit their lives
Their futures, their families, their homes?
For a hundred-yard crossing, a wasteland, a swamp
Where their spirits forever must roam.
So, how many men can you lose in a day?
In a week, in a month, in a year?
And a hundred years on, who’d give a damn?
Consciences, perfectly clear.
Mrs Green
In her warm woolly hat and her sensible shoes
Old Mrs Green is but yesterday’s news
Against the chill wind she angles her head
She comes, then she goes – not a single word said.
Like a comet that travels to the dark edge of space
Then in silence returns to the very place
Where the journey began a lifetime before
With a tentative step and the creak of a door.
Though the bag that she carries is empty it seems
It is stuffed with sad memories and unfulfilled dreams
And all of the things that she might once have been
A dancer, a singer, or a star of the screen.
But now she is destined to walk the cold street
Her eyes never losing the sight of her feet
That seem to propel her with a will of their own
To here, then to there, and finally home.
So, let’s leave her,
To her thoughts,
The occasionally seen,
Elusive,
Reclusive,
Sad,
Mrs Green.
Scrap-paper Balls
I’ll admit it, for me
One of life’s little wins
Is a scrap-paper ball
That lands in the bin.
That look of amazement
On everyone’s faces
As it flies, then it falls,
In the bin, of all places!
But what do you do
If there’s nobody there?
Do you whoop, shout, and holler
Do a jig, punch the air?
’Cos after you’re done
With the cheering and yelling
The story falls flat
With each subsequent telling.
But I know I did it
That it sailed straight and true
And at scrap-paper throwing…
…I’m better than you!