Monday, 26 June 2017


Ghosts. How do you expel them?
You do not invite their intrusion,
Lingering ways and mayhem.
If only in truth they were an illusion!

Ghosts. Are they really there
In the same way that we are?
Or will they disappear in the glare
Of the headlights of a car?

Ghosts seem to be there all right;
Watching every move you make.
Not so much to give a fright,
But take when not awake.

Ghosts seem real enough,
But if we pay them heed
Are we the not the stuff
Of dreams? Ghosts that bleed?

Wednesday, 21 June 2017


A blood red poppy all of a sudden bloomed
Completely out of the blue (or green) this year.
Since none had thus far been seen, we assumed
This to be a lonely, lingering, singular premier.

Yet on the 'morrow came more, the same,
Marching with frail petals, under our star,
With a carpet of red met by buzzing bees
And a breeze carrying voices from afar.

Who are you delicate ones with wings?
Whence came you to our place of green
With beautifully eerie silence that sings
Of where you've been? What you have seen?

The poppies grew in number and sighed
Once more, as we stood by the door gazing
At their fragile presence. And, then raising
Their stems, as if to attention, all slowly died.