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

I can no longer deny the end of summer as October delivers a chameleon chill; can no longer cling on to its memory, whilst an emerald palette shifts towards amber I watch as dawn's misty chimneys rise to hang in the valley like ghosts, and fern turns crisp There's no looking back as nature reimagines the world; persuading me of a different perfection that exists without temperate warmth Instead, I look forward to the glassy crunch of frost beneath my feet Of icy dragon breath

I slept much better, woke refreshed, reluctant arms and legs uncurled The light more nuanced, colours vivid, air of motes that spun and...

Bird or butterfly? Peacock eyes watch from a bed of splendid iridescence Starlings’ movement sweeps in a syncopated and magical...

This was it! The final hurdle in our Yorkshire three peaks challenge, and another adventure ticked off our list of personal challenges....