I’ve been away too long.

"If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?" wrote Shelley. As spring comes, March watches over its first steps.

He gained none of the world's glory, ran no large company, held no great post.

Our ship was all we needed then. Our ship was all our need.

This poem is just "a flight of fancy" that I wrote many years ago.

We miss the weather we were raised with. After all, it is a lifelong friend.

A lament for the excess of tarmac.

Missing the rain.

The sun lends a hand and shows us the way.

Does anyone read poetry these days? Does anyone still read a poem aloud, just for the pleasure of hearing the music?

We all need time to take a break, to sit and think of nothing in particular. Why not in this old, neglected cloister?

We struggle with words every day. It is never easy to say what we really mean.

The wind at night in the north of Somerset.

Well-loved tools that have served you over the years become part of you.

He was a man who just happened to be passing by, from whom no good was expected.

The moral of this story is ‘As you grow older, don’t stand near your son or daughter.’ But that’s good. That’s how it should be.

Quick update: from now on there will be just one post a week – a poem every Friday.

Are they really British, the swallows that come in April and the robin in the snow at Christmas?