“Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” I do what I do Lay my egg in an old nest, or one that's quite new High up or low down I'm not very fussy Just need a good sitter As I’m always so busy “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” I know what I'll do! I’ll secret my egg with the Dunnock eggs, blue Safe in the hedgerow From bold prying eyes Whilst I busy myself Hunting beetles and flies “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” Where to lay number two? Tucked in with the Pipits, where my ancestors grew My baby will grow And devour all the food

Date: 2030 I was nervous throughout the interview. Any relevant experience I’d had seemed so long ago, but I really wanted this. I took another deep breath as the interviewer looked down at his notes. “Final question…” I held my breath.  “…tell me why you want a job after all this time.” I exhaled slowly. “I want my life back.” His eyes narrowed and he looked as though he was going to ask me to clarify, but he didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t been the right thing to say, but it had b

March blows in and March blows out It paves the way from flood to drought From out of darkness, brings us light A hint of warmth, a sky more bright It strengthens patience now worn thin As March blows out and March blows in March blows out the winter chill And melts the snow upon the hill It banishes the winter gales Returns to winter, sleet and hale Yes March becomes the referee Till spring and winter can agree March blows in and clears the paths For crocuses and nodding daf

My childhood self would squat to peer under rocks and stones, At slugs and worms writhing as one, a spaghetti mess in the mud; Unable to resist poking their soft, sticky squishiness With a stubby finger. Would marvel at tremellose frogspawn. Each morning, racing toward the pond, Awaiting the emergence of wriggling tadpoles from their jelly prisons, To witness the wonder of their metamorphosis. I wondered if it hurt; All that growing of limbs and shedding of tail; If such tran

A winter's day, yet sky is blue The wind has iced the morning dew I scramble over shifted dunes To find the bay in crescent moons How gently do the waves creep in A creeping, foamless shiny skin To coat the beach with velveteen A surreptitious silent scene The grains disturb, then realign Whilst seaweed fragments intertwine A graceful dance, a soft bequeathing As though the sea is simply breathing

Felucca, take me down the Nile To leave the city for a while Behind me, dusty, noisy streets Where cart and van and horse compete As sun beats down on man and beast Provide my eyes with lesser feast I need to visit times less fraught Where life is simple, peace is sought   As river-water ebbs and flows My mind is emptied, thoughts disposed A meditative state adopted Images and rhymes concocted Reed beds, foliage, habitats All lie within the Cataracts Time goes by, the hour un

We stood at the kerbside waiting for the taxi, the luxurious all-inclusive hotel behind us and adventure in front. After a week of lazing by the pool and reading, we were ready to see the wonders of the Nile.   The taxi arrived, its boot slowly rising, a response from a signal inside the car. The driver didn't get out, neither did he speak as we got in, instead pulling out into traffic before I had even fastened my seat belt.   "Good morning.'" I offered. No response; that's

Mother Nature lives here, in broad daylight she hides, and she’s dancing around midst the trees At home with the squirrels, the snowdrops and moss, at one with the birds and the bees She sways with the grasses and howls with the wolf, as she sings to the song of the breeze A friend of both robin and babbling brook, who bow down and give thanks at her knees   She’s there in the shadows, she slips in and out, but I see her each day from afar She imagines she’s hidden, but not f

I came across a lonesome deer It was not scared, knew I was near It turned to look me in the eye then stalked away with head held high A robin danced along the fence It matched my pace, its stare intense I felt its need for company Our thoughts exchanged complicitly Along the path on stone-built wall A squirrel with its morning haul I stopped to watch a little while Then left him, blessed, with happy smile Returning home, at peace, content And grateful for an hour well spent

Half asleep and half frozen, I stood at the end of the street, stamping my feet and blowing into cupped hands before thrusting them deep into my pockets. That first get-up after the Christmas break was always going to be awful: tossing and turning half the night, despite my good intentions and going to bed early, dragging myself from a deep, dreamless slumber to switch off the irritating sound of the unwanted alarm clock, and having to dress and eat an unwanted breakfast at t

Love is not found in a glass of red wine But the bottle I'm sharing with you It's not in the food or the fancy clothes It's the table that's set for two It's the touch of your hand And the smile in your eye And the words that don't need to be said No, love is not found in the places we go But the home that we've made, me and you Love isn't the softness that's held in my pillow But the fact that your head's next to mine It isn't in gold or a new diamond ring It's the moments o

It was the year that the Swifts didn't come. As April passed into May, a heavy depression settled on Jeff. It didn't bode well. Migrating Swifts had been in decline since the late '90s, but somehow he kept hoping, year after year, that there would be an upturn. The problem wasn't limited to the Swifts either: the Spotted Flycatcher, Cuckoo and Nightingale were also in sharp decline, and Turtle Dove numbers had crashed by 98% since the 1960's - they were now on the black list

I stood forlorn, my boughs weighed heavy; a shadow of myself, in a corner of the garden. Half hidden behind the garden shed, head bowed, ashamed. At first I had been elated at my promotion; From pot to soil, inside to out. No longer trivial - a plaything, dressed up by children in gaudy sash, but free to reach up high, to feel the sun, to sink my roots into endless, soft earth; to live. But was this living? A fruitless existence, a friendless realm. There was no admiration fr

Sitting under clear blue sky The morning sun shines down from high A breeze from wings of butterfly The joy of ordinary The kestrels soar above the clouds Prepare to dive to fields just ploughed Their keening sounds so clear and loud Announcing ordinary Lizards scuttle on the stone New generation, barely grown They chase a future yet unknown And search for ordinary The soothing eucalyptus scent Pervades the air with bold intent A lazy day, my time mis-spent? Immersed in ordin

The cat sat on the fourth step, her eyes darting left and right, whiskers twitching, as she surveyed the room. The fourth step was the best place to be - she had learned this through experience. Any higher and she lost her view of the room; if she sat on the third step she would be noticed by Antoinette and shooed away with a feather duster or tea towel; on the second step, she would be clearly visible, and kicked and cursed at by Pierre; and on the first step she would be vi

A short story, written after a visit to Peak Caverns in Castleton, Derbyshire and published in the online magazine, Cafelit   Bert Marrison sat in the cave mouth on a rickety hazel stool. It was 1970 and he was 85 years old; too old to be a rope-maker any more, with his gnarled and deformed hands, but not too old to fend off the returners. In fact, his age – in this role  – was a definite advantage, as even the roughest and most foul mouthed of the lead miners would stop shor

“Name please?”   Simon looked up at the bloke in front of him; he didn’t look anything like he had imagined. No robes, no big book. No pearly gates for that matter – obviously a myth spread by Sunday school teachers. Just an ordinary guy in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt with a slogan scrawled across it ‘ Eye of a Needle’ . He hadn’t heard of them, must be a foreign band.   “Erm, Simon, Simon Cavanagh.” “And have you completed your questionnaire?” “Questionnaire? I’m not s

I remember when it was cold for Halloween When an icy chill used to nip at my mittened fingers Jack frost would creep into boots to freeze my socks and ice my toes A big coat squeezed the breath from me beneath my costume - a sheet And my breath condensed inside a ghostly plastic mask I would hurry from house to house, Knocking on doors whose steps were decorated with ghoulish glowing pumpkins Collecting paper bags of toffee, home grown apples, pennies Until my knees were kno

I hobbled clumsily down the seven steps from the front door to the street; steps worn shiny by over two hundred years of feet passing up and down: tenants, tradesmen, and for the last eighteen years, our family. I usually skipped down the steps, my mind on other, mundane, things, but today I was totally focussed, manipulating my crutches and trying to remain upright. Once on the level, I made my way along the pavement, negotiating up and down kerbstones and across roads unt

Written whilst walking above Ogden Reservoir on Pendle. Ali’s bench is a memorial to Ali Watson and invites walkers to, ‘sit a while and enjoy one of his favourite places.’ I always do.   I sit for a while on Ali's bench And watch the browning bracken As the scuttling clouds Make their hurried way I feel my tension slacken No birdsong today as the mist hangs low Though I spy a kestrel soaring Whilst traipsing tendrils Of wind torn branches Caress the forest flooring A Jay swe