POEM: My Wife

I am pushed beyond my comfort zone

By a hand so gentle

It holds me close and guides the way

Even as it urges me on

POEM: Windermere

I’m not one to write poems about mountains.

I do not make literature of the field.

Flowers bloom and wither without bother from my pen.

I’ve never yet rhapsodised a tree.

Not a drop of verse from trickle to ocean.

But the view from this window is the stuff of poems,

To be written by better men than me.

POEM: Easing Lockdown

The broken system,

exposed,

leaves us

(for fear of losing what little scraps we have)

longing for our old oppressions,

clinging onto the corpse-foot somehow still pressing down on our neck,

even from the grave