I’ll be away over Easter, so may not be able to post, but there’ll be more on my return, and I’ll still be writing each day.

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If you were a china cup
I’d be your saucer
Collect your overflowing
Hot water,
To pour back to you
I’d let you rest upon my shoulders
We’d fit just right
A perfect pair
Despite our chips.
If you were a china cup,
and I was a saucer

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The blanket covered the window
blocked out her world,
tatty, pieced together, threadbare

a symbol of her love,
it enveloped you
broke through your turmoil,

mismatched colours
soft, yet coarse, coming apart at the seams
like your family

the stale smell of the old, with just a hint of lavender
Horlicks and Jacobs cream crackers,
her grandfather’s favourites

your voice begged ‘thank-yous’,
asserting that you did not deserve it, were not worthy
she hears her own voice echoing still

Did it help you block out the fear?
Did you hide behind its gentle chains?
Was it a barrier to the cold, you were always so cold.

A hotchpotch of memories
held within
this knitted, patchwork security blanket.

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Tastes Good

Hope’s wild ancestors can still be found in Central Asia.
Grown for thousands of years, hope is one of the most wildly cultivated plants used by humans.
There are more than 7,500 known cultivars of hope.
About 69 million tons of hope is grown worldwide each year.
Many beneficial health benefits are thought to be found in hope.
Farms with hope orchards are sometimes open to the public so that people can pick their own hope.
Hope tastes good.

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There’s a shiver caressing her shoulders,
and a blackness begins to settle in her bones,
common sense glances backwards,
ears become radar, and wind rattles her,
colour falls like leaves from her cheeks,
and somewhere inside fear begins to speak.

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A golden shovel using the poem Inscription by Sophia De Mello Breyner


Only the clouds know when
it’s time. I
see no reason in those who seek to die
young. I
lament their will,
their desire to travel and not return,
to taste the richness of this earth, but not to
stay. I will not seek
to cloak the
world in mist. To deny the moments
which did exist, for I
was there, I did
see. And wanting not
to forget, I choose to live,
to let the hours journey by,
to take solace from the
rhythmic calling of the sea.

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Salt Road

She travelled the salt road,
and the silver birch spoke of her passing,
and she paused at the miner’s cottage where tiny purple pinheads spilled out over walls,
and the iron gate chimed,
and she zig-zagged through meadows,
and wagtails bobbed as if in thought,
and dandelions bowed to the wind,
and one weathered bench sat waiting,
so she joined it,
and together they worshipped the sea.

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