A poet’s message ~ should be clear, elegant, true ~ and poetical.

I hold very strong views on the writing of poetry. The first is that a poem should be complete in itself and need no separate introduction. I do get cross if I attend a reading and the poet spends as much time explaining about the meaning of the poem before it is read, as it takes to read the poem!

If the poet needs to do this, they have not spent enough time on the poem and are wasting your time and mental energy. To write a worthwhile poem takes skill, time and effort, which should be spent by the poet themselves so as to make your hearing or reading of the poem crisp and concise.

The second rule is that the ‘message’ of the poem should be accessible at the first reading or hearing.

There may well be deeper, less obvious, meanings hidden in the text that may develop or emerge with re-reading but the fundamental meaning should be clear at the first experience. When I started writing poetry I joined The Poetry Society, expecting that I would enjoy the poems published in their journal. Frankly they were so ‘clever, clever’ that I could not understand what they were about at all! After a year or so of wondering if I was the thick one, I gave up and cancelled my subscription.

Just to give a flavour of my work here is a selection of my poems.

Hearing a distant curlew’s bubbling cry
My heart with hiraeth* fills.
This sad, lonely sound distils
Sun and wind on Wales’ hills.

* Hiraeth  – A Welsh word meaning ‘a longing to be home’.

When I was born the sunlit, sparkling sea
Patterned the ceiling, light delighting me.
And as I grew, that sea was always near,
Gulls’ cries and wave sounds ever in my ear.
Barefoot among the worm-casts on the rippled sand
I wandered free, my little body tanned
By salty breezes that the grown-ups shun,
My child’s eyes narrowed by a hazy sun
That warmed the pools bait-diggers left behind.
A seagull’s feather was a special find,
Held high, vibrating, thrumming in my hand
Then thrown aloft to spin towards the land,
Forgotten in a moment. Something new
Would catch my eye – a bright green copper screw,
Sand-polished glass, a piece of wood
Cuttlefish bones or whelks eggs, each was good
To handle, smell, abandon – half a minute’s joy –
Each common thing a treasure to this little boy.

I learned the run of currents, times of tides,
I knew the sandbar where the flatfish hides,
I’d find the oyster-catchers’ hidden nest
Amongst the flotsam. Their alarm made manifest
Through plaintive piping, tricks with broken wings
Decoying me away. But other things
Along the high tide mark would catch my eye
A driftwood dragon, seaweed crisp and dry,
(My favourite was many bubbled bladder-wrack,
Pinching each black balloon to make it crack.)
Dead guillemots, striped Brasso tins
Dried dogfish with sandpaper skins
And soggy sailors-hats blown overboard
Such riches – I’d collect a hoard
And leave them on the beach, run home for tea
Tomorrow would bring more in from the sea.

Then there were boats! Learning to row and sail.
My brother’s voice “Don’t let the painter trail”.
The skill of sculling with a single oar,
The thrill of landing on an unknown shore
Across the bay, to sleep beneath the sky,
Only a sail to keep the bedding dry.
Rising at dawn to catch an off-shore breeze
Watching for cats-paws grey on sunlit seas,
Feeling the ropes as stiff as rods, the canvas taut
Heeling with gunwale dipping, braced against a thwart
Then sudden calm, bow-wave and bubbling wake subside,
To drift in silence on the morning tide.
Alert for eddies warning ‘sunken rocks’
We’d drift along. We had no clocks,
The angle of the sun, the rate of flow,
Sounds from the land, the way the seabirds go
Told us the hour.  So were these early years to me
A life in tune with tides and subtle rhythms of the sea.


I interviewed a man last night
Who’d just come up from Tooting
Though blind from birth his claim to fame
Was – he loved parachuting.

I asked him how he knew the time
To brace himself for landing
He answered with a ready smile
At my not understanding.

“It’s easy, Mike,” the man replied
“I have this simple knack
I know when I am near the ground
My guide dog’s lead goes slack.”


The wind of Spring was singing in the churchyard pines,
Wavelets were sparkling, dancing in the sun.
The heavy door swung open to my push.
Inside was silence.

In this House of God,
I prowled about,
Reading the tablets on the wall,
The roll of Honour, names
Of men who left their lakeside homes
To die.
The flowers from Sunday last
Fading and drooping here, today.

Near to the door, a book invited me:
‘A mother, very ill.’
‘A child dying of leukaemia.’
‘People of Bosnia,
Sudan, Somalia.’
A catalogue of human grief.
Not praying, I read on,
My vision blurred.
‘A son on drugs.’
A missing daughter, gone from home
To God knows where.’

I closed the book
And turned to look along the quiet nave
To where a cross gleamed gold.

The heavy door swung open to my pull.

The wind of Spring was singing in the churchyard pines,
Wavelets were sparkling, dancing in the sun.
A mallard flew a cross across the sky,
Marsh marigolds heaped mounds of treasure round my feet.
A pair of swallows, following blind instinct all the way
From Africa, swooped past.
A buzzard mocked me, mewing overhead.
Then, on the wind of Spring,
I heard God crying in a curlew’s call.


When first I saw
Your baby hand, born fingerless
I cried and put it to my lips
A vain attempt to ‘kiss it better’.

Later I learned to kiss each hand
To show I didn’t mind
And let you know that every part
Was just as precious as the rest.

Now, when I watch you play
Handling each problem with such joy and zest
I kiss your hand
From sheer respect

I never notice which.


To read more of my poetry click here.

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