Books and Writing
I've been writing one thing or another for as long as I can remember, and most that remains is packed in old box files, or on my computer. I have however published a book of poems and a novel.
The novel, TIME TELLS, is a psychological mystery set in North Norfolk.
It's available from Amazon in paperback and e-book editions.
Counting Frogs and Catching Stars is a selection of poems written from the mid-1960s to 2006, when the book was published.
Available from Amazon.
I say in my introduction:
I write primarily to communicate, and I believe my poems work best when my heart, head and guts are equally engaged. It is always good to have positive feedback from other writers, but I am particularly delighted when people who don't normally read or listen to poetry tell me they've been touched by one or other of my poems.
A Norfolk Station on a Winter Evening
It’s a matter of absences.
No staff. No ticket machine. No
coffee vendor. No loo. She’ll pee
herself in a minute. Come on,
train! No glass in the sides of the
shelter. Must have got smashed. They should
have thought of that. Should have made it
from something more durable. She’ll
write a letter to someone. If
she remembers. Tomorrow. My
god, though, doesn’t the wind cut to
the bone! No mercy. And what if
the train never comes? What if that
screen that says on-time-on-time-on-
time refers to yesterday? Or
the day before. Or no day in
particular. What if it’s stuck,
like a needle in the groove of
an old cracked record? What if the
scattered people are just drifters?
Chanced upon this platform like lost
swallows, waiting for time and stars
to re-align. What if that young
woman in the skimpy dress and
strappy sandals has just blown in
from some city street, some hot dry
day? The coat she gathers round her,
a gift from a stranger. The bump
she cradles with her palms, just fruit
of an accidental union
in some half-remembered bed. And
what if the old man, bent and stained,
is dreaming of the smell of roast
chestnuts on a brazier? How he
held his sweetheart’s hand. And how the
moment glowed. Warm and forever.
What if the train roars by, breathing
steam? Blind to this dereliction
and the figures of its landscape.