The trees suggest
to me of dancers.
Weaving their brittled bones,
skilful on the breeze of winter’s
rebellious motion.

Supple indications, shaping
and shedding – sapping
the act of soon to be springtime’s

From such rugged growth to
sway of draping bodies bowed
No cries of encore –
No plaudits please, screech their moans
stricken they, amid
their arching
breaking limbs of woe:

Left now for wasted all
dying in the unkind cold…


Poppy Jan 2017~xx~



When it is my time to leave
how much of myself shall I take?

Lighter the head of memories
or heavy the suitcase filled of relics stacked.

Do I go in autumn just before
the winter storms
lay barren my North, bearing
down amid the gloomy leaf less trees.

Or should I choose
spring just before the summer
when orange blossom still prevails
the early morning air.

Such is this weak annihilation of mine
observed through eyes now blocked to light.
When all, but a slender residue of calm,
shall remain
and you might cry:
for knowing that I’ll not return


Poppy ~xx~
April 2015


I met myself today –
hideously fragmented
not proud of the way I was on display.
I muttered ‘I don’t like you’ she replied:
This feeling is mutual shall we call it a day.

I sensed we both felt the strong need of summer
yet summer she made no haste.
Rising slowly, lingering overly long, half dressed
only to be beaten back
left strung out low, on egg white frothy
triumphant clouds.

I suggested we dance – harmonise as one
pointed toes, shadow less – interpretations.
Yet how rapidly you rotated, shamelessly disfiguring
my vision of life
Bitten back by the envy of your fun
I withdrew myself as one; back to where
winter is always, winter, wearing forever
the exact same face.


April 1st 2015