Born in Bradford, returned in1981. Did MA in poetry at Huddersfield Uni. Member of the Institute of Linguists, sometimes translates poetry. Seldom submits for publication mainly due to laziness and ineptitude with MS Windows.
Shrinking
His wheelchair stands empty by the stairs
and she just can't remember where he is.
She always said she wouldn't be tied like this;
if he was gone, she'd trip out to the coast.
She can see that he hasn't mown the lawn,
not in twenty years, covered by last season's apples
and a pinelap panel blown down by the gale,
a thin line of snow iced on one edge.
Her gate she saw moved six inches in
by Catholics stealing her Protestant land,
whose schoolchildren in their playtime
send a breeze of chatter through her window.
Can I, she asks, see a cat on that roof.
It's been there for years in her mind.
A satellite dish but yes, I say, to be kind.
(first published in The North no.30 May 2002)
Baa Baa
When I see sheep out on the roads
Chewing sweeter grass along the verge
slowing cars to reach the other side
leaving half a fleece on barbed wire
I imagine they should have some shops
with lots of different branded grasses
in brightly-coloured plastic carrier bags
more safely showing off their individuality.
Dancing
She holds up her right hand
I take it with my left,
her palm is sweaty like mine.
Her nails are painted,
mine clean-scrubbed.
She has a hankie in her sleeve.
My right hand is placed
under her shoulder, not too low.
I look over her right shoulder,
she over mine, I can smell
her perfume and see her fingers,
more delicate than mine.
The space between us
must always be there,
concentration on the steps
one-two-three, one-two-three,
at the same time turning,
requires some distance.