Preseli Walk

Trudge breathless up boggy slopes,

squelching puddles pool under rubber heels.

Reach glorious heights of heather,

illuminated blankets in bright sunshine.

Beneath ancient sculpted rock,

rest on tumbled stone touched by pagan hand.

Warm breeze lifting hair from damp skin,

gaze on a patchwork as clouds cast ink blots.




There he goes, my beautiful son.

Bone china skin, hair afire.

Fragility worn in cool style.

Brief nod at my frantic goodbye.

A pang of love explodes my chest.

A Martian Sends A Postcard Home



A Martian Sends A Postcard Home by Craig Raine

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings —

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside —
a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone’s pain has a different smell.

At night when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves —
in colour, with their eyelids shut.

Your face on the pillow

Your face on the pillow in early morning light,

touched by sleep’s youthful kiss.

Crow’s feet, which tell of love, laughter, loss,

wiped from the corners of your lids.

And I watch in silence,

afraid to stir and wake you from this contented bliss.


And I listen in silence,


Soon the busy day will shake you awake,

deepen the creases on your brow with worldly concerns.

Your face on the pillow in early morning light,

And I am enveloped in your peace.

My husband’s pet

My husband has decided to keep a pet caterpillar. It is disconcerting to see it sleeping under his nose as we have a conversation. When we kiss, it wriggles and prickles in discomfort. A top lip is not the best home for a caterpillar. One day, it may move on, find an appropriate place to live, crawl under a damp cabbage leaf. Or perhaps it will spin itself a silky cocoon, grow beautiful wings and flutter away.


Anxious, early hours,

wind throws rain against panes,

breath wrestled from chest,

stomach somersaults while heart quick steps,

mind kicks brain awake,

paces vast halls of thought,

up, down, up, down,

potential failures grow loud,

footsteps pound and rebound,

resounding, echo, echo, echo.

Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside

Look at them laugh and relax on the beach,

paddling toes, digging holes, smooching on sand,

slapping on sun cream, sucking on a peach.

These days are our last, don’t they understand?


While filthy litter makes the planet choke,

fleeing children starve under smoking skies,

plastic fills the sea from our greed for coke,

homeless bundles huddle, fear in their eyes.


Don’t they know the great time of man has passed?

Or do they make hay while the sun still shines?

The wealth and the excess will never last;

protective lotion layer coating minds.


Do they bury worry deep in the sand?

Block ears with the sound of the soothing sea.

Like me enjoy the small things while they can;

cover eyes with shades so they cannot see.

If I die



If I die before I wake, remember happy me,

a song for each occasion, busy bee.

Forget the eyebrows in the air, tut-tut.

Don’t think of the thankless, if only, but…

Remember the time I fell off my chair,

lay on the grass giggling, feet in the air.

Forget harsh words, regrets and sorry tears.

Remember dreams followed, conquering fears.


When my soul is taken away to rest,

remember me as my wonderful best.

Don’t think about things I shouldn’t have said.

Remember the cuddles, snuggled in bed.

Forget the many failings I acquired.

Remember wild dancing round the fire.

Know that I wished to be open and true.

And never forget, I died loving you.

Singing in the train

If life was music, I could waltz and wail

down this grey aisle, sing out my soul and pain.


Tap dance on grubby tables, strewn with snacks,

swing high from dusty, laden luggage racks.


Vault prickly, itchy, threadbare railway seats,

terrify little children scoffing sweets.


Take hold the hands of a dark, handsome man,

share duets, fall in mad love, make some plans.


My fellow passengers in quick time clap,

The guard skips along, whistling, his feet rap.


‘Tickets!’, his hole punch plays like castanets,

as we rumble on through worldly regrets.

Keep it under wraps

Wake to a foreign land,

heavily silent.

The earth keeps

secrets smothered

under cold, crisp layers.


Blanketing, blizzard

buries all.


Not a babbling bird

tells its tale,

nor murmuring mammal

speaks its story.


Whispering world of

words unsaid.


Our past is

entombed deep.

Truth suffocates us

beneath a

pure, white face.