[A visit to the family graves at St Mary's Churchyard, The Barony, Nantwich]


Home to haven, thanksgiving and prayer

Where earth had settled the ferryman's fare:

Safe from the crossing, at refuge from care,

Rows of skiff-kists beached to memory there.

Guarding the landing where they had come home   

A grand copper beech resurges the graves

Tumbling gently both kerbing and headstone

In quiet relentless insistent waves.

Magnificent homeward-harbour tree

Channeling blood and bone, both tide and quay

Swelling your crowning bronze to ecstasy

At one with the slipway and the sea

Brimming and breaking and welcoming me

My loved ones at one in your majesty.


I have been dissatisfied for sometime with using Poemhunter as a holding paddock for my poetry - like so many sites on the Web it is obsessed with gimmicks and commercialization.

The ‘Peacing’ is in the Poetry - hopefully

Painting: 'Control Tower’ by Peter Whyte (1905-1966) celebrating No 3 Service Flying School in Calgary, Canada during WW2, with Avro Anson training aircraft parked and ready [National Gallery of Canada].


I was tired physically

And emotionally:

Disappointed by the reckless comment

Hurting at heartlessness that wouldn’t relent

Disappointed by the hate we couldn’t prevent

Entrusting my heart in the prayers I sent.

I swear to God

I loved this city

Those who cared were much appreciated

But I wondered that few in the city reciprocated

Out of uniform I was a threat that colour created

In my uniform my own people were alienated.


I have been away in the UK for nearly three weeks pursuing an alternative path to my WCC mayoral megalomania. In the Wake of BREXIT, I had received a call to fly back to the UK in a sealed Etihad airliner to foment Revolution.

My cadres in South Cheshire had guaranteed that the time was now ripe for a takeover of the Nantwich area by the Cheshire Republican Army which was to have installed me as caudillo.

One Woman Army

So she that doth redeem her thence might wear

Without corrival all her dignities.

“I know I am small but I am strong

Life taught me lessons early

As a woman, I must stand up for myself

As women, we must stand up for each other

I stand against false beliefs and old practices

For those women who have been

Forcefully married and sacrificed

I will fight for right.


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Poor Pass in Kilbirnie

There is still no Revolution, the drums are dusty

And the once young bullfighter has grown sad-whiskered.

Briefly escaped from the Rita Angus complex

He wheels his steel-frame down Bay Road

Having survived from among the singers, the fighters

And the so-called lovers - body now stiff as board,

A face like weathered newsprint from the verge -

He edges and side-steps to the Ruth Gotlieb library.