The hands that touched the cross.

The carpenter was busy on the day that the procession, led by a man on a donkey, entered Jerusalem as the crowds cheered and waved palm branches. He was too busy earning his living which included making weapons of death. He had made a small fortune from the means of punishment and torture, and his

Van Gogh in Leicester

Immersed in colour Swimming in light She sat, Surrounded by lilies and towering sunflowers…. She sat on the nearest chair in the pew emptied nave that was filled with light. She sat transfixed as the wall, floor and air danced with colour. First the blues and purples of lilies which faded to browns and the

Winter Blues

Winter has a purple hue, an end of life bruise, as the lazy blue of summer darkens. Long nights and short days suffocate. Skeletal trees reach up bony fingers touching the damp, cold air. Decaying leaves smother the bare soil, a wet blanket on the sleeping ground. Worm casts litter the lawn that’s crying out

Musings 2021

A mixture of emotions filled 2021 as the new life of a grandchild brought joy , while the worries of being a member of the Sandwich Generation brought its own challenges; an election to a new role in the community and plenty of missed opportunities to be Christ’s hands and feet in the world. Like

A Lion in my backyard

For thirty five years I have tried to tame the lion in my back yard, but I have decided to relax and enjoy its wildness. Your wildness is something else – it is prickly like brambles reaching out with thorn like claws. It is tangled like bindweed, wrapping and smothering. And when the ground is

NN8 Run-a-round

I’m not called Poetonarun for nothing! The inspiration for this poem came on my 12 mile run around Wellingborough. The artwork, as much as it is, tries to incorporate the physical features of the town with the running shoes that I wore to pound the footpaths and cycle tracks. I’m off for a run round

Hope

NN8 Writers Group have been tasked with writing on the theme of “Hope”. I find myself again writing with two voices, but it is the hopeful one that speaks the loudest. Hope isn’t the taste of a pear, just a day older than perfect, tinged with the blue-green taste of the bruise, spoiling it from

2020

A macaroni poem is written with two voices. Last year, like all years, leaves us with a mixture of emotions which whisper inside as we look back and then forward to a new year. Here is my personal reflection. A year to remember A year to forget. A darling girl born in March Into a

The Day After Christmas

While out with the dogs I saw an inflatable Father Christmas, lying slack on a driveway. It lay there, on the flooded patio, Deflated and spent, like a giant’s condom; The spectre of Christmas in a puddle. Hung from the tree, darkened lights, That in the night shone bright, Now smirked and revealed the sham

Names

As a teacher for 38 years, there are names which make me smile and then there are those that make me sigh with frustration. All names have been anonymized. Feel free to add your own! She slumped in the chair ran hands through her hair rubbed tired eyes and breathed out a few sighs. Then