A selection of tiny poems



In the winter garden
has the poet forgotten
all the words for spring?

Not a frozen brook
but a field left fallow -
writer’s block

The lip where water slips
into sound -
words left unsaid

A cobweb quivers
cleared away
by the year’s turning

The old calendar
holds memories - the new one
is like fallen snow

Seventeen raindrops
a necklace for my daughter -
January’s tears

Will the snowdrop
answer your questions?
Wait for spring

Déjà vu –
ghosts of last year’s spring
in the winter garden

Dust on butterfly wings -
with gentle hand, touch
but do not brush

The bracelet
she still wears like grief -
ah, no! the years

A sudden cut
then the long thread unravelling -
this weight she carries

Lost among words
reaching for music too late
oh, that blue guitar!

The dream place where paths join
all year round the same
through the seasons turning

A cut worm
in the ploughed field -

Would any sunset do?
No, it was the one
at Waterloo

The music of stars
is too far away. Give me
a hobo’s thrawn song

Fly in the ointment -
the insistent backward gaze,
the thin plaintive note

Tell it slant, like rain
on rooftops, gulls crying -
tell it slant, like rain

Lost friends, missed deadlines -
lay these burdens gently down,
for they weary you

The black cat prowls
at the edge of nothing -
pawing the silence

Words have no edges-
they are sand or water
scooped by many hands

He plays the flute —
all the birds stop to listen
in the enchanted wood

In the cold garden
has the poet forgotten
all the words for spring?

Tick-tock, the loud clock
in a house where no one counts
the last few minutes

‘I’m sorry’ she said
as she wept for the dead -
as if tears were crime

No names for the dead -
only the soundless toll
of numbers without end.

At their unending work
the nurses weep -
will no one count their tears?

Rooks in winter trees
talk of Covid
in Cornwall’s valleys

Village to village
the virus spreads
the kindness of strangers

No kigo for lockdown
in this haiku
the rain keeps writing

No words left
in flooded valleys
for falling rain

in the summerhouse
all the kigo hidden

give me a clear haiku
with a crisp turn, its edges
cutting like grief

In two pieces -
will no one mend the cut?
This haiku bleeds

Nettles and brambles…
on gravestones and mossy steps
the forever rain