Posts Tagged ‘nature’


October 19, 2018

The Cenotaph stood in the park, silent.
Amidst the frost, we exchanged glances, quiet
Unsaid, we shared our thoughts.

Or so it seemed to me.
I cannot say what was going on in your head.
Winter sun slanted through hoar frost, red.

Around us, people went about their business
Time stood. Motionless. Frozen, as icicles
Festooned green blades, contained within a germ.
Spark of life, now dormant, hidden gem.

Winter casts everything in hush.
I remember your hand, the final touch.
The rattle and dying away of your breath.
You lay imprisoned between four legs of the hospital bed.

In the world outside, time raced by.
The last short, all too short days of wintertide.
I remember that night, we shared a last meal.
Jollity, slightly forced, spilled beer on tablecloth.

Little did I know then, you would never leave the flat again.
To be confined, as cancer ran its fatal course.
Germ of life, trapped in frosty core.

I wish we had the time again.
Memories are all I have, no more.


little red little green

If you have enjoyed my poetry on this blog, my collections, “Little Green Poetry” is  available from Lulu  – £4+P&P (paperback) or £2.50 (for e-book readers)

You can still order copies of my first collection, “Little Red Poetry” from or – again for £4 (pb) or £2.50 (as a pdf for e-readers).

I hope you enjoy reading my poems, and, as always, all proceeds will go to help build the fightback against corporate political parties, to build a voice for the millions, not the millionaires.

To find out more about my politics, visit the website of the Committee For A Workers’ International, which is engaged in struggle in around 50 countries worldwide.

Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, while playing Pokemon Go and trying to catch Quilladin on August 2, 2016

August 2, 2016


A score of years have passed since your release
Childish nostalgia; games we once enjoyed.
Gameboy, Dreamcast, Nintendo 64
Amidst the console scrap-heap in the sky
Clouds scud across, sweet summer's zephyr.
Yet I care not. I'm in pursuit mode – hot
On heels of rare Quilladin green and brown;
Chestnut bred with hedgehog, strange beast indeed.
If only I could find reception in midst
Of landscape serene, these green hills and crags
These beauteous plots, hedgerows, fields – Nature
All around - why focus on tiny screen?
At this wide wilderness, I barely glance
Entranced by tiny pixels as they dance
Enticingly away from futile tries
To entrap Snorlax in my virtual grasp.
Whilst I leap to find elusive signal,
I lose my footing, tumble into tarn
My precious iphone dowsed in mountain stream
Screen smashed, game irretrievably lost.
My eyes open then to Nature's beauty,
Not augmentations of reality.
I fix my gaze on real, not Google Earth;
Take in each second, value every breath.

If Wordsworth were around to see this day,
Playing Pokemon would ruin his poetry.

Worm’s Eye View

July 29, 2015

I love to wriggle through loam, my home;

I enjoy stretching through the soil, my toil.

I am not a stick in the mud, m’lud!

I am Worm – earthy, honest, tiller of land.

My band work tirelessly, day and night –

Make roots grow deep, shoots sprout towards the light.


Woodworm, wormhole, bookworm, earworm, wormwood.


This worm is for turning

over new leaves.

For turning the sod over and over




All that was solid, I break down.


Blackbird hears worm’s earthy song

Dances to the beat, claws stamp along.

Vibrations travel through the soil

Earthworm, excited, starts to uncoil.

Squirms through the black earth

Surfaces – to an outstretched beak.


Worming, wormery, blindworm, worm food, meal worm, earthworm.


Protesting – pulled from the ground.

Blackbird puts an end to his wormy sound.

Bjork and Attenborough

July 30, 2013

I have always admired Bjork as a vocalist and as a musician.

Last week’s documentary on Channel 4 changed my view.

She is a genius. Let me try to do justice to the Biophilia project.

Bjork was frustrated with the academic approach of her musical tutors, and influenced by her 40-minute long childhood walk to school, singing as she passed through the dramatic landscape of Iceland, she has decided to come up with a completely radical and revolutionary way of teaching music, and of how we communicate with each other as a species. Instead of the daunting jargon and paraphernalia surrounding music – musical notation, the intricacies of learning a complex instrument, the Western canon; Bjork wanted something intuitive and natural. Finding inspiration in nature, Biophilia (meaning “lover of life”), is an attempt to re-connect the human species with the original roots of music – a drum beat around a campfire, a bone flute, the human voice.

David Attenborough, evidently a true Bjork fan, eloquently makes the point about our vocal range having evolutionary usefulness to humanity, and compares this with the great song of the gibbon – the whooping and wailing of our primate cousins as they find a mate.

But Biophilia is so much more than even this seemingly massive task. Bjork described her project as presenting “Nature on stage like a rock star”. Biophilia seeks to reconnect us with mathematics, echoing the fractal geometry of crystals and galaxies; connecting with us on the level of neurones; the movement of tectonic plates; the moon’s circuit around the Earth. These are basic and common knowledge, which makes music making instinctive once again. Bjork is connecting biology, physics, music and chemistry at a fundamental level.

These ideas have been translated into an epic 3-year tour across the globe, programmed into Android apps, and translated into priceless, custom-built instruments such as the Sharpsicord and gravity pendulum and is accompanied by an all-female choir, some of whom have been singing together since the age of six, with months and months of rehearsals. The sounds soar over the crackle of a Tesla coil, the belching of lava. Bjork whirls magnificently around in a DNA dress.

So what? You may ask – it is just a CD. Yet the neurologist Oliver Sacks, explained the deep emotional connection we have with music – it lights up the brain like no other activity, and can revive even people whose brains have become dormant with dementia, if a suitably evocative melody is played. Art makes us human.

Bjork has described Bophilia as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I think she is being overly modest – this has huge potential to transform the creativity of the human race as a whole, and has already been taken up enthusiastically by Iceland, who have made it a compulsory part of their school curriculum.

Biophilia is a truly mindblowing experiment, which has the potential to bring about a cultural renaissance and link people across the globe, in the realisation, as George Orwell put it – “We are on a life-raft sailing through space”. The one thing we all share is nature, and we had better look after it.

For that, we need to be grateful to Bjork’s inspirational idea.

Of course, there is always the possibility that music will continue to be usurped by big business, ground down to the karaoke of the X-factor, reduced to catchy phrases and meaningless soundbites. Biophilia shows what can be done, if our human potential can be fully realised.

Common Ground

July 29, 2013

Common Ground

I calculate the angle of attack,
Alter my approach. Ailerons
Raised; I come into land.
I can spot the tiniest movement
From eighty feet –
Swoop, catch, consume.

It’s all in the preparation,
A pilot’s checklist.
I wear the colour of black,
Creep under their radar.
Addressing worms below
With a mighty V sign.
And you call me bird-brained!

This particular stealth bomber
Sits proudly in the apple tree,
Head tilted, eye fixed
On a single blade of grass.
Assesses the moment to pounce,
The time to stoop.
Readies himself.

Branch resonates.
Sprung into the void,
To devour and feast
On the succulent, fat worm below.

“Don’t eat me!”

Lingua franca
Bridges the elements.
Spans the gulf
Between the foes.

Stunned, the bird
Stalls, falls
A whirl of confusion,
A mass of ruffled feathers.
Just in time, he pulls up,
Regains his composure.


“Don’t eat me”.

“For I am a digger, a nourisher,
A toiler and tiller,
A compost-heap of delight.
Without me, you would never
Taste berries, so red and ripe
Or perch on your tree
So lofty and high.
We are legion.
On the work of billions
Your life depends”.

Blackbird eyes his adversary
In a new light.
Pearlescent, deep-jet stare.
“Fat, juicy worm,
My children are hungry.
They cry for food.
Kill or be killed.”

“The same winds which drove you here
Powered your flight,
The same jetstream, the same clouds
The same rain, the same instinct
Causes me to surface for air
When pitter-patter drums the ground.
The same urge to procreate,
To fend for our brothers and sisters
Beats in my heart as it does yours.
We stand on common ground.”

“I am a maker, a delver and digger
Gardener of tender shoots, green leaves.”

Blackbird bends ever closer,
To hear this strange speech.

“To eat me would . . .”

Beak stabs, snaps.
Worm falls silent.


You can help support the Socialist Party by buying a short book of my poems, ‘Little Red Poetry’: Support independent publishing: Buy this book on Lulu.

Three poems on blackbirds and worms

July 17, 2012

The early bird catches the worm
Twirling, writhing, twisting,
Avoiding the deadly, stabbing

Searching, seeking, fleeing,
Burrowing into fertile,
Nourishing, revitalising

Cowering, sheltering, prodding, squirming,
Snapping, closing, struggling, ending.
The worm, turning
In the death embrace of the

Imprisoned in the gaping maw,
The black cloak of death
Enfolds, flies up.
Gives to its offspring,


Safe inside our burrows
Under soil, close and narrow
We shelter silently, safe and warm.

When raindrops drum,
Our wormy instincts thrum
And we surge up through the ground
In response to the sound.

Its only natural for a worm,
Sharp eyes see us squirm.
The black harbinger of doom
Unfurls its wings and zoom!

Talons tear through our clods,
Beak stabs and prods.
No safety anymore.
Exposed, naked on the floor.

The meat-seeking missile strikes.
Remorseless predator,
Devourer of worms.

Worms of the World Unite

Brother and Sister Worms:
We have had enough
Of being easy prey.
Let’s refuse to burrow,
Stop ploughing the furrow
And let it lie fallow,
Dry and barren as bone.
Let the blackbirds break their beaks
On our resolve, hard as stone.