Poems

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Poem

Miss Flotsam was my reception teacher.
She had travelled the world.
Brown hair turned golden
under distant suns,
clothes carrying colours

Poem

There is a place (believe me,

            she said) where if, if

                          you go beyond

the street lights, to the lane's end,

Poem

It is midnight in the ice rink
And all is cool and still.
Darkness seems to hold its breath
Nothing moves, until

Red Cherry Red
Poem

I spied a small lonely boy.
I was his beautiful red balloon,
from morning through to noon,