The Day Room

She doesn’t look up,
swaddled in pink toweling.
Dinner in the Day Room, haddock on a tray,
the old queen who lost her soldiers slumps an empty table.
Above her head the TV plays silent memories,
survival of the fittest in exotic locations.
A lioness stalks prey while another dies.
She doesn’t look up when I speak.
Lips rotate, chewing, tasting the sins of the world
cut up in pieces.  Her hand trembles as she adds salt.
My absent presence, invisible bones on the edge of her plate.
She starts on the sponge pudding with custard.
She doesn’t look up when I leave.

She doesn’t look up when I leave.
She starts on the sponge pudding with custard,
my absent presence, invisible bones on the edge of her plate.
Cut up in pieces, her hand trembles as she adds salt.
Lips rotate, chewing, tasting the sins of the world.
She doesn’t look up when I speak.
A lioness stalks prey while another dies,
survival of the fittest in exotic locations.
Above her head the TV plays silent memories.
The old queen who lost her soldiers slumps an empty table,
dinner in the Day Room, haddock on a tray.
Swaddled in pink toweling,
she doesn’t look up.


Original Photographic image created by the author

The Day Room is an example of a specular poem – the second stanza mirrors the first.  Please see  a-poem-for-remembrance-day  for another example.

Picnic at Wuthering Heights

Sundays, dad drives, mum folds
maps, me in the back seat of our black Ford.
We meander from Gargrave to Stump

Cross to Oxenhope Moor. Stone-walled
boundaries streak beyond misted glass. I choke
down nausea, cross fingers and legs.

Squatting in ragged robin roadsides, we search
for traveller’s joy. Weave delicate chains of wild
amid the stench of exhaust. We chew hardboiled

eggs, salamis, gherkins, hard cheese with red rind, wilted
sarnies from Tupperware. Me and Mum sip tepid tea, plastic
brittle-edging my lips. Dad drinks Double Diamond.

The wind blows cold. We seek shelter in damp beneath
dry stone walls ignoring the holes where carefully selected rocks
fail to interlock. I look for Heathcliff in dark crevices, hiding

secret notes, names scribbled on scraps. Northerly
gusts breach the wall until we shiver. Whipped
silent, we scatter our crumbs and leave.


Original Photograph by the author



The Day She Dropped

the trifle, it exploded on blue tiles pain
-ting cryptic signs churned in chaos.
Raspberries, cream, vanilla custard, glace cherries, perfect
sponge, (home-made of course) secrets
hinted by hundreds and thousands
no-one would ever understand. The cold
glister of broken crystal, the old bowl her ex
brought back from Paris at his own risk.
She wanted to laugh until she saw
his face at the head of the table, the half
-empty bottle of Smirnoff, his plate strewn with left-over
Christmas, the scrunched up paper napkin, handy for blood
spilled when she tried to pick up the pieces.


Original photographic image created by the author

Note:- Divorce lawyers claim January is usually their busiest time of year.

Intersection, Inverness

Alone, I wait for the green
light at a T junction. In my rear view

mirror, mother and daughter, blonde curls, matching
smiles, laughing, chatting, trading

glances, milky eyed reflections of one
another, safe as air bubbles in fused

glass; on their way home from Asda or ballet or violin
class or fish and chips with grandma after swimming

or Maeve’s birthday party and the promise of girl
guiding. The lights change, I turn

away from the crimson
city, away from the sighs of cherry blossom

in the ranked rows of trees on the riverside
as petals freeze to pink ice in the chill.


Original photograph by the author




No-one knows the people of bone
or why my drunken grandpa brought them home
from an auction room on Goldspink Lane,
shipyard wages blown
on beer, cigarettes and porcelain.
Their unexpected arrival, smooth and brittle,
put grandma in a flutter
flapping about with her feather duster,
finding the best place for aristocracy.
The old king with daughter at his knee
and her lover, typecast, ensnared eternally
by some secret quandary,
unaware of their position,
centre stage.

On a white cherry blossom day
I sipped cider with my lover on Goldspink Lane
while Player’s No 6 sucked grandpa away,
left grandma alone with royalty.
No-one knows their story, how it ends.
They hover inside my door, uninvited,
the bone people atop the tall cabinet
next to the clock.
I make my entrances
and exit,
looking up as I pass by.




Note 1:- The subject of this statue remains a mystery.  The figures appear mythological or Shakespearean.  The object is about 18 inches tall and is made from Parian Ware, a type of bisque porcelain imitating marble.  The material was popular for sculpture in Victorian times and was developed around 1845 by the Staffordshire pottery manufacturer Mintons.  It was named after Paros, the Greek island renowned for its fine-textured, white marble.  It was prepared in a liquid form and cast in a mould, therefore suitable for mass production.


High Plains Drifter

One of the few things I had in common with my mother was a love of film.  They say if a pregnant woman listens to Mozart it will encourage the unborn child to be musical and good at maths (the structure of classical music helps the brain to develop). In my case I was exposed to the stories of Hollywood while still in my mother’s womb.  Cinema tickets were cheap and the local Essoldo was a five minute walk from home so my mother went to the movies several times a week clutching a bag of oranges for which she had a craving during pregnancy.  Those were the days of glamorous stars such as Marilyn Monroe, Lauren Bacall, Brigitte Bardot, Elizabeth Taylor and strong silent heroes like John Wayne, Clark Gable and Humphrey Bogart.  My mother had plans to name me Victor after the Italian American actor Victor Mature if I turned out to be a boy.

When I reached adolescence we would stay up, just the two of us watching late night films on the black and white television set.  My father went to bed early as he was up at six for his foundry job but on Sunday afternoons he and I watched classic Westerns such as The Searchers, True Grit, High Noon, Stagecoach and The Magnificent Seven.  The image of the loner cowboy, a gun-toting misfit with a mysterious past riding into town out of the wilderness was common to most of these films.  In reality American cowboys worked in groups riding along with the herds.  Gunfights were rare events.

In his final book, Fractured Times Eric Hobsbawm examines the cowboy myth and its role in Western Culture. The idea of solitude, being set apart from society and  holding alternative, idealistic values is crucial to the fantasy appeal of the cowboy hero.  Hobsbawm writes:-

‘Individualist anarchism had two faces. For the rich and powerful it represents the superiority of profit over law and state. Not just because law and the state can be bought, but because even when they can’t, they have no moral legitimacy compared to selfishness and profit. For those who have neither wealth nor power, it represents independence, and the little man’s right to make himself respected and show what he can do. I don’t think it was an accident that the ideal-typical cowboy hero of the classic invented west was a loner, not beholden to anyone; nor, I think, that money was not important for him. As Tom Mix put it: “I ride into a place owning my own horse, saddle and bridle. It isn’t my quarrel, but I get into trouble doing the right thing for somebody else. When it’s all ironed out, I never get any money reward.”

My favourite old Western as a child was Shane.  Alan Ladd’s portrayal of a charismatic yet sensitive loner who saves a family but then departs alone into the misty blue mountains seemed very romantic. The tear jerker ending got to me every time.


There’s something dreamlike and special about losing oneself in a film.  Sitting in the darkness of the cinema or alone on the sofa at home, reality and fantasy become indistinguishable.  Sometimes, when the film is over images replay in my mind for days and seem more real than my own routine life.  I think the stories we are told, like fairy tales in childhood have a powerful hold over us, influence our hopes and dreams, the way we think.

Parts of the Far North of Scotland remind me of the Wild West; the long, straight, empty roads, wide horizons with distant snow-capped mountains, the huge skies, the freedom from the restrictions of the city.  Like the old Frontiers this is a place where a person feels she can re-invent herself, a blank canvas to create a new identity.  It’s a land that attracts those who have problems fitting in with mainstream society for various reasons.  Those who want to start afresh. The locals call people like me, ‘White Settlers’ and it’s not meant kindly.  They narrate sinister stories of criminals on the run and ex-secret service agents hiding out incognito, just like the mythical bandits and outcasts of the Wild West.

And like the Wild West there was, strangely enough, a gold rush in Sutherland at the Strath of Kildonan in 1869.  Even today tourists are able to hire equipment and go panning for gold in the river but you’re much more likely to catch a chill then get rich quick!

My local village has a long, wide Main Street, wide enough for five lanes of traffic which seems incongruous in such a tiny place.  It always looks deserted but you know that you’re being watched.  Behind the twitching net curtains there is always a nosey-parker.  Just like the small communities of the Western prairies everything you do here is noticed and probably held against you at a later date.  It’s a place with traditional values frozen in a time warp back in the fifties.  Feminism and equal rights are alien concepts.  The wind blows cold from the East and you can almost see the tumbleweed rolling along.  You can imagine a big shoot-out, just like in High Noon with Gary Cooper swaggering out of the Post Office to fight off the bad guy about the sins of double parking or a misplaced wheelybin!