Poems

Poem

It's five past three.
Sixty-four eyes look at me.
No. Sixty-two.
Not Matthew.
He hasn't learnt to read my face.
He's got digital. A disgrace!

Give The Ball to the Poet
Poem

When they were young,
She kept wicket for her brothers,
They batted,
Bowled,
Padded up
And ratcheted up the score.
She crouched behind the stumps
Keeping wicket.

Poem

The seagulls are doing their dance again – Wings clasped to their sides, they stare up the street.
Up and down, up and down, go their knobbly pink knees;

Poem

Teach me the language of Cat;
the slow-motion blink, that crystal stare,
a tight-lipped purr and a wide-mouthed hiss.
Let me walk with a saunter, nose in the air.