…you lot haven’t got a ruddy clue,
what on earth’s a baby going to do
with those? Stables can get very cold
this time of year – do you think that gold
will keep him warm? And as for myrrh –
I’m sure his mother would prefer
a nice warm coat. They may be symbolic
but gold and myrrh won’t shift the colic.
If I were you, I’d take some toys,
treat him – for one night—like other boys.
You’re the Wise Man, show some commonsense,
he’d rather teddy-bears than frankincense.

This is our instead-of-a- Christmas-card-card,
supporting the NSPCC.Best wishes from Jan and Jane

…said dress up in your glad-rags, Wolverhampton
and gather round the MOTH today at noon,
we’ll stop the cars and set up picnic tables,
the goths will hand out gold and black balloons.

The fountains will spout Fruit Shoot for the kiddies,
Michael Kirk will run the BBQ,
the Bilash has said ‘yes’ to biryani
and Banks’s will rush out a special brew.

They say Dave Hill will start the karaoke,
and Irish dancers will sport with morris men,
a gospel choir will sing the National Anthem
to greet the Mayor, who on the dot of noon,

will raise a glass to us in Wolverhampton,
a place, for warmth and welcome, next to none.

I’m pleased to say that this poem won second place in the Wolverhampton poetry competition run by the Wolverhampton libraries and archive to celebrate 10 years of Wolverhampton’s city status

Our ankles turn and rick on razor shells
left ploughed and furrowed by last night’s tide.

Starboard, a breeze abrades the dunes
distributes particles to sandblast exposed skin.

To port, at least a mile away, the North Sea
picks up conversations and with a great howl

holds them underwater until they drown
leaving us with static and white noise.

Above, and all around, purple clouds
drop scuds of rain. And on we trudge.

Over Holkam, though, there’s enough blue sky
to make a pair of sailor’s trousers, and the wind,

which must have missed the shipping forecast,
veers round and shoves us forward,

towards the other walkers further up the beach,
sleek as seals in waterproofs,

behind us, we sense human warmth. If we need to,
we only have to stretch our arms out

for our Thinsulated finger-tips to touch
and we could circumnavigate the globe.

Dog
good dog
guard dog
top dog
the dog’s
lucky dog
dog star
dog rose
dog violet
dog wood
dog off
dog’s breath
dog’s tooth
dog-leg
dog’s body
dog-eat-dog
dog’s breakfast
dog’s dinner
doggy bag
hot dog
fire dog
dog days
every dog has its day
Dogtanion
dogmatic
dog collar
doggy fashion
Dogger Bank
dogged
dogging
dirty dog
dog dirt
dog-earred
bad dog
under-dog
hair of the dog
a dog’s life
dog-tired
dog-end
doggone.

I hated gym,
I couldn’t swim,
could do no sport at all.

I couldn’t bowl,
and as for goals,
I didn’t even try,

but I won a badge for rounders
when I hit my own right eye.

In May, I stood corrected: that’s not a cabbage,
it’s a green-veined white, the expert said,

the veins aren’t green at all, but
subtle blends of black and yellow scales.

I made a note and took a photograph.
My mistake to think romantic thoughts,

when the yellow-black, called green
but definitely not cabbage white,

flew off and left behind his perfect match,
immaculate if flat against the charlock.

That’s your female non-receptive mode,
the expert said, and launched himself into

an exposition on the ins and outs of
reproduction in the green-veined white, and,

by extension, every other member of
the order Lepidoptera. He paused,

before a footnote on Linnaeus
and the proper way to name all living things.

I felt enlightened, though a trifle numb
as if I had been chloroformed, until

I looked around, that Saturday in May,
and saw, pavilioned by the cobalt sky, the air,

from where I stood, to round the Wrekin
and beyond was dizzy with a million aerial pairs,

all wearing well the other names I know:
the bow-ties, motyl, day-flaps, hinges, ghosts,

and what I now could say for certain was
the butter-coloured, green-veined summer-flyer.

Published in ‘Shropshire Butterflies’, Fairacre Press, 2011

1. Crème Eggs appear at check-out tills
2. Christmas cards half-price
3. 5ft display of Valentines
4. Easter eggs fill 3 shelves at Tesco
5. Valentines 2-for-1
6. Gregg’s stock hot-cross buns
7. Jif lemons
8. ‘World’s Best Mum’ gifts at pocket-money prices
9. Easter eggs, pancake mix, hot-cross buns simultaneously available
10. First barbecue briquettes on sale

March 2011

The tip of his tongue
Throbbed like a neon sign
Above a cheap hotel,
Red as an alpine strawberry
Seeded with words not said.
Jammed at the back of his mouth
Were phrases like:
Of course I do.
Do I need to tell you?
It’s deeds not words count.
Cleaved to the roof of his mouth:
I’m just a bloke,
I don’t have to say it.
Don’t push me.
The words that would have stopped
Her checking out, stuck in his throat.
Never made it past
The tip of his tongue.

Forthcoming events
International Women’s Week workshop

Saturday 12th March
a poetry workshop with Emma Purshouse and Jane Seabourne

Bradmore Community Centre

1.00 –3.00
£6.00 (£4.00 with concessions)
contact Emma or Jane for a place

Our father’s second-favourite bed-time tale
was rum, to say the least: cajoling servants
made to drag a throne onto the sands
and watch as King Canute controlled the tide
with soggy, but predictable results.
No talking bears, no magic beans, no mice,
no happy-ever-after wedding scene,
no drifting off to soothing platitudes.

And where was sleep, as my father-king roared
Go back! Go back! to imaginary waves
that still lapped round and soaked the candlewick?
Perhaps not comfort-blanket, more red flag:
don’t get your hopes up, father-wise: the beach
is full of plaster heroes with wet feet.

Five angels, eight shepherds, ten sheep,
Twelve animals kneeling three-deep.
And lo, from the East,
Six Wise Men at least.
Two parents: one baby. Asleep.

Happy Christmas, 2010