poetry diary

Strawberries and cream
next to empty Pimms glasses –
that man has no shoes.

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I was at a traditional English summer garden party yesterday.

A damp June evening;
pigeons hanging in still air
breathed out by rain gods.

Uniform walkways,
glass towers and cultured trees –
a car turns away.

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I was in Coventry yesterday, where much of the city centre is being rebuilt.

A bowl in mid-air;
spun from careless hands, destined
to fragment my day.

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The moment I realised the simple bowl I’ve used to make my breakfast every morning for years was about to be lost. It was perfect for the job – which you don’t always appreciate until too late.

A muddy puddle –
six hundred people running
scattering dried stones.

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Every Saturday morning hundreds of people meet in our local park to run 5km (at vastly varying paces, for fun!).

White lily petals
adrift on a wooden floor –
velvet-scented air.

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I enjoy bringing a few flowers inside – but they don’t last long.

A philosopher
tells me nothing is certain.
I fill my wine glass.

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I did actually sit next to a philosophy professor at dinner last night. She drank with me, though, so I’m being a little unfair!