Writing me Down

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Haiku - from the bird table

Blackbird grabs bread chunk -
places it beneath her feet -
Gone! Cheeky sparrow.


flash of gold and green
a feathered whirling combat
over sunflower seeds

Monday, January 30, 2006


Wrenching the flimsy recycled plastic lid from the compost bin, I emptied out the plastic tub of vegetable waste. It smelled of orange peel, banana skins and onions. A cloud of little black flies circled around the opening. The grass was soggy underfoot, small pools of water in the clay. I squelched back across the lawn with the empty tub. In the front border, the bulbs were showing some two or three inches of foliage above the soil. The red plastic sunflower seed birdfeeder had fallen down again, rocked off its peg by the exuberance of the greenfinches. I picked it up and hooked the wire back over the peg, tightening it to prevent a recurrence. The paving stones were strewn with sunflower seed casings. I made a mental note to sweep them up and put them in the compost - one day.

Warwick Parkway Station

All around me are lines, converging. Floor tiles; paving stones; railings; the brickwork design of the protective grid pulled down around the coffee bar; the girders supporting the glass roof.

A rattle of coins; beep beep, clatter of change. The whirr of a drink spouting into a paper cup. Food clunks into the vending machine tray. Footsteps pace by, and a draught of cold air strokes my arm as the doors hush open. Quiet; broken by a throat clearing and the roar of a car engine; machine-gun rattle of tickets being printed.

Friday, January 06, 2006


A boy stands, the light glinting
on a trumpet
clutched in his hands.
Behind, Father holds
his son’s small shoulders.

A voice sounds their names, one by one
each age pondered over
a sad reminder
of the hopes of a village

The voice stops
and boy raises trumpet.
We wait.
Two notes tremble out, followed
thoughtfully by two more.

The notes hold us still in the frosty air,
and leave an echo
to bow our heads to.
We stand
in silence.

Broken only by rustling leaves
and the bustle of engines, and shouts -
Move back there!
We can’t go anywhere!
We stand firm and shut them out

While our memories tremble
on the trumpet’s echo
and drift around
like the leaves that fall
and lie on the ground.

November 2005