Poems

Poem

He was seven and I was six, my Brendon Gallacher.
He was Irish and I was Scottish, my Brendon Gallacher.
His father was in prison; he was a cat burglar.

Let in the Stars
Poem

Now the day is over,
you're lying in your bed
and cares are spinning endlessly
around your weary head.
Remember that the moon you see
is also shining down on me.

Poem

All you see is outside me: my painted smile,
the rosy-posy shell, the fluttery eyes.
A butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth-type me