A Sample of my Poetry


At breakfast one morning,

As the sun in the sky

Took the place of the tired, worn out moon,

I happened to notice

With shock and surprise

My own face

In the back of a spoon.



My nose was extended,

My forehead was warped,

I looked just like a painted balloon,

With my eyes now both squashed

And my jaw in retreat

As I stared at my face

In the spoon.



I thought I had melted

In the heat of the night,

(For the calendar month then was June,)

But I could not believe

I’d changed shape like hot wax

As I stared at my face

In the spoon.



‘How could this be?’

I then thought to myself

As the sight of my face made me swoon,

‘Am I still fast asleep

In some nightmarish dream?’

Came the thought

As I stared at the spoon.



But my ghastly reflection

Was quite real enough,

Like the change of a plum to a prune,

I began to despair

And sheer panic set in

As I stared at my face

In the spoon.



I sat there for hours

All depressed and alone

Right into the late afternoon,

When I happened to catch

My reflection again,

But not in the back

Of the spoon.



I saw myself right

In the blade of a knife

And I felt I had won a great boon,

For I no longer looked

All distorted and wrong

As I had in the back

Of the spoon.



I jumped up with joy,

I cried with relief

And I danced round the room to no tune,

My appearance was normal,

I’d been wrong all along

When I’d stared at my face

In the spoon.



But in the midst of my joy,

A question arose

And my doubts then returned all too soon,

Which reflection was true?

The one in the blade?

Or the one in the back

Of the spoon?



To this day, I’m not sure

Which image I trust,

Am I human or a ravaged baboon?

When you look at my face

Which one do you see –

The one in the blade

Or the spoon?



I fear the strange answer

Is neither and both,

Rather like the old man in the moon,

Whose face is dependent

On how it is viewed,

As is mine in a knife

Or a spoon!

Every garden slept in silence

Through the January freeze.



Crackling trees were first to waken

In the February breeze.



Little seedlings stretched and yawned

As the March hares leapt from bed.



April flowers rose to wash for Spring

As showers bathed each head.



Buttercups quickly dressed in yellow

On May’s green country hedgerows.



Then bees flew in for breakfast

Over June’s sweet-scented meadows.



Borders played with paint box colours

As July drew out the days.



Tired willows napped all afternoon

In August’s Summer haze.



September berries black and red

Were gathered in for tea.



October lawns were brushed and fed

As birds began to flee.



November bulbs were put to bed

In evening’s fading light.



In December, woodlands slept and dreamed

As owls kept watch all night.