The Writer’s Manifesto

Give me half an hour of peace

and a desk to write at,

a pen or pencil, and a notebook.


Give me a morning to daydream away

to conjure up worlds and magic

and drink coffee while I’m busy

in my own head.


Give me space to return to other worlds

to sail away across the seas

to a place that nobody knows of but me.


Give me time alone to be at one

in my own mind

to put words to paper

even if they don’t mean much

they make me feel better

and then I’m all yours –

for a few hours at least.



The Wave Breaks

The wave breaks

on the shore

and rolls out as


life pauses for a moment

before continuing undisturbed;

the sea the master of its own destiny.


The wave breaks,

the world keeps on turning

regardless of the time or place


and where you and I are,

without a thought for the absurdity

of this thing we call life.


The wave breaks

as the sailor out at sea is rocked to sleep,

lulled into a sense of security.


He is alone, far away from anything

that might be called civilisation,

but he is at home.


The wave breaks

upon the shore

where I stand


feet buried in the sand

listening to the sound of water

rolling back and forth


as nature intended,

and I, I finally feel at one,

here on this beach, hundreds of miles away

where I stand alone.



Autumn is here and I long

for those long sunny days

when we walked about barefoot,

short sleeves, picnicked

in the sunshine, sand between our toes.


Autumn is here and summer is gone for real

I think as the rain outside

hammers down, the streets and skies

grey and dull, the colours have seeped

away so that now, we’re living

in black and white.

On the Road

Another road, another unfamiliar car park

on the road again

destination unknown,

journey to be decided.


On the road again,

with a car full of gear

and anticipation in the air.


On the road again

with sand between my toes

and sea water at my feet.


We’re all travelling on separate

roads, heading to different places

colliding, crossing paths at intervals

and spinning in orbits

that are the same

for a little while.

But we keep on spinning,

closer, further away from one

another into paths

we cannot speak or know

of but we just keep on

keeping on, moving, turning

our own paths and journeys

to follow and end games to meet.

I Don’t Like Parties

I don’t like parties you see,

all those people crammed

into a hot, dark space

talking and drinking

pints and shots

that disappear like air,

people pressing in.


I don’t like parties you see,

in unfamiliar spaces

with new people and places

that I don’t know

and things that I can’t control.


As everyone races ahead,

I am left behind, forgotten

and wondering what I’m doing there.


holds promises we cannot see

the dream of new beginnings

long evenings and warm days

stretching out in front of us

full of hope, expectations

and long empty days

ready for potential

unwritten canvases ready

to be filled.


But then it starts to run away

faster than we can

keep up with it

and too soon, we’re mourning

the dying days and the loss

of all that time

which once stretched








He holds a rucksack in one hand
as if it’s an inconvenience,
something he wishes to be rid of.
He leans against a wall,
just another visitor, another passer through.
His footsteps don’t linger there
no imprint is made
to say that he was there.
He is just passing through –
another wanderer,
searching for something.


I am rooted in the earth there

growing from the soil.

It’s in my blood

my roots are there

and do not move,

while my heart and mind

wanders from beach to cliff,

craving salt water

wherever I go.

Postcards from Home

The Freshwater co-op car park

is a long way from home.

Everything is these days –

home is a distant thing,

a concept I can’t wrap

my head round, no matter how hard I try.


Every rolling field, combine rumbling

by, every hay bale and tractor

every pebble on the beach

is a postcard from home

that I can’t ignore.


An old tattered paperback,

words jumping off the page

familiar characters and faces on the screen

are like a blanket wrapping

themselves around me, linking me

back to home, an unwritten

postcard that doesn’t need

to be spoken aloud.