ramblings and things


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o Mural

o Village Childhood

o Calculating Cat

o Fat Alice

o Drop-in Centre



o Survivor Guilt

o Prime Ministerís Question Time

o Lessons from Viet Nam

o The Airborne Museum, Hartenstein, March 2023

o Early Morning Walk

o Mitherings

o Communication ii

o Sock Drawer Poets

o Diplomatic Dancing

o Old Bill And Me

o Debits And Credits

o Organic Farming

o Whiskey The Cat

o Fettling The Garden

o Instantaneous

o Those Washday Dreams

o In Povertyís Hell

o By Steam Train

o Road Hog Blues

o Interference

o Yorkshire Red

o This New New Year

o Priory Woods 2022

o Sovereignty

o Tanks

o Two Thousand And Twenty Two

o Ginger Whinger



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Flames



She is the candle to my moth
I am singed by her flame
Dicing ever closer
Whispering her name

Then the wind of chance blows
And with a random ease
Her light is erased
By that fickle breeze

I bumble stumble around her room
Feeling wasted and old
This room is so dark
This room is so cold

But my lady my lady
Lingers in the air
I feel her very presence
She is everywhere

She flies with every wind
Tousles leaves in the tree
Tells me so many ways
She still waits for me

She is the candle to my moth
I am singed by her flame
Dicing ever closer
Whispering her name







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