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1914 |
| I think I inherited my love of horses from my Grandfather, who was a very keen rider in his youth. I don't remember him, but my Mother told me a story about him when he was a young man of only 17 at the beginning of the First World War, and this is the poem I wrote after hearing it. The photo shows him outside the barracks, before he was sent overseas. |
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My Great Grandfather withstood arguments and pleading,
weathered his son’s anger,
saying
“You’re not taking him,
He’s mine, not yours,
He’s staying here,
He can go out to grass until you return”.
All through cavalry training,
through drill, preparation, anticipation,
My young Grandfather held his annoyance
at the old man’s meanness
until finally,
in action,
he realised his father’s compassion. |
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Cats |
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| My three cats have very different characters, and I thought it would be a good idea to celebrate each one with a poem. |
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| Jack |
When I return he’s there,
sitting on the sofa arm
looking at me with round light green eyes,
He rears up to take the touch of my hand
on top of his head,
He is portly
smooth furred
dressed like a butler
and there’s a white smudge on his nose,
He is an anxious cat,
He sleeps on a stool by the radiator,
He’s always home.
He is the guardian of this house,
I don’t thank him enough. |
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| Wesley |
He’s the sleek one,
long legged
shadow black,
back arching
he yawns
showing pointed teeth,
he leaps onto the windowsill
and sits up very straight
gazing at the world,
he needs to know,
as he struts down the street
his tail is always a question mark. |
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| Tilly |
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she is a proud striped creature,
old and knowledgeable,
she sits with her paw extended,
dozes, and purrs,
she has a life to remember
and nothing to prove |
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