Climbing the Hill

Pushing the pram,

The wheel a honking goose,

She climbs the hill.

Beyond the soot-black church

A view, unmatched from all the city’s peaks,


But she looks down,

Her cargo, all her life

Contained in bags,

Her only thought.

Fine clothes that once had been

The envy of all who saw them.

Brought low by time,

Brought low by use,

Brought low by lack of care

Upon the wheel of fortune.


Soft words hide malice.

Handshakes hide hate.

Sun lights the rain shower,

Action shapes fate.

Lies can be bridges to cross the great gulf

And there’s warmth to be found in the fur of the wolf.


Deep cold can burn.

Pain can delight.

Years can be fleeting.

Wrong can make right.

Even the strongest will bend ‘til they break

And there’s strength to be found in the coils of the snake.


Words cause confusion.

Art can deface.

Lies lead to honesty.

Speed halts the race.

Some say that life is a slow walk to death

And there’s peace to be found in the dragon’s hot breath.


Well may the wind howl
And batter the trees,
Let the cold creep in
And make our breath freeze.
Well may the dark come
And rob us of sight.
Well may the fear come
And stalk us by night.

Sombre the music
Inside of your head
Persistent the devils
That bolster the dread.
Solemn the promise
That day will awake?
Cold, dark and fear come
Your spirit to break.

Sometimes there’s nothing
To reel in the day,
No mental candle
To brighten the way,
All of these terrors
Can paint your days black.
Then none of the sunlight
Will find its way back.

My Mother’s House

My mother’s house is packed with books
The paper garden of my thought.
Mysteries, crime, adventure tales,
Poetic tomes, the facts of war.

I know them like a loved friend’s face,
Their covers and each lettered line.
I know the stains, the tears, the wear,
The marks that take me back in time.

So long ago I picked them up,
Devoured each chapter, phrase and word,
Cocooned within that special place,
My private and imagined world.

Quite deaf to any outside sound,
Unknowing of the turn of tide.
Entranced by other people’s words,
Inspiring me to try to write.

Those stories now are written large,
A part of me, beyond all doubt.
My story too is written there,
On pages in my mother’s house.