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The Feather In The Sky

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This poem was inspired by a brief getaway to Flaxton with my sister and brother-in-law. It was a longer journey than anticipated, the motorway was busy with holiday makers and heavy goods vehicles, so on arrival we just sat relaxing outside the caravan. Glass of wine in hand, Helen and I talked as Phil dozed in the heat of the afternoon. Watching the clouds sailing slowly through the sky, I suddenly spotted a cloud that looked exactly like a single, perfect snow white feather.  As I pointed it out to Helen, my mind drifted back to our childhood. To Mum telling us that some people believe a white feather to be message sent from heaven - a message of comfort and of hope. Readers of my writing will know that Mum died a number of years ago, but with Dad having just left us, the sight of that feather felt less like a coincidence and more like a reminder of them both - a message that we are never truly alone. We sat beneath the Yorkshire sky, where caravans stood still, and afternoon bre...
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Spanish Skies and Family Ties

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Benidorm was never on my wish list of places to visit. But after Dad’s passing this year, everything changed. When Helen and Phil decided to join Dawn and Chris on their annual holiday, they invited me to tag along. Somehow, I knew I needed to be a part of it. The generation above us has disappeared. With no one left to call Mum or Dad, the three of us have suddenly become the older generation. It’s a profound realisation - one that makes you look at your family and realise how easily you can drift apart if you don't make the effort to stay close. So this holiday became our way of doing exactly that.  It wasn't a pilgrimage. It wasn't especially sentimental. It was just five people who have known one another for decades deciding to spend a week together. To laugh, to remember and to make new memories. I arrived as the only single traveller, dubious of our destination and determined not to get in the way of my sisters' enjoyment by being the gooseberry. I needn't hav...
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Mirage

MIRAGE Hair and Beauty   There's a little shop in Euxton, Just on Runshaw Lane. I visit at the weekend, And I'm always glad I came. There's Sarah, Brooke and Hannah, And Charlotte, bright as day. With smiling faces, caring hands, They always find a way. There's music, laughter, friendly chat, Fresh coffee, biscuits too. A place where you feel welcome, The moment you walk through. With colours, cuts and styling, Bleach, waxing, nails with care, A little touch of pampering, And kindness everywhere. You leave feeling refreshed, renewed, With confidence unfurled. A brighter heart, a lighter step, Ready to face the world. I love my little visits, Each one a special treat. You leave with brighter hair, perhaps, But lighter on your feet.
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Betty's Bear

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Recently, my son Martin picked me up so we could go for a coffee and to catch up on the weeks events. As I settled into my seat, I noticed that we had another passenger. Sitting behind him was an old brown teddy bear, which he immediately gave me to hold. During our journey, Martin spoke animatedly about his latest acquisition, referring to it as a "Blitz Bear." I had never heard this phrase before but Martin went on to explain its provenance.  The bear had been reconditioned, it had no identifying label, but judging by his shape, coarse coat, and fixed limbs and head, it is thought to be 90 - 100 years old. What seemed like a simple toy immediately became much more interesting as Martin shared the story behind it. Martin has a keen interest in aviation and wartime history. Through his popular Instagram page, " flying_with_martin ", he regularly shares photographs, research, and stories from the world of historic aviation with a large and enthusiastic following. Our...
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Poem - Pauper's Gold

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" When the sun slips behind the clouds all the heather turns purple and then, just for a moment, when the sun drops behind the hill, the whole moor turns into a sea of gold.... they call it pauper's gold, because no rich man could ever own such beauty. "   This quote is taken from the 1996 BBC1 adaptation of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë.  "Pauper's Gold" seemed to me to be such a beautiful and evocative phrase. To represent those treasures that cannot be bought or stolen - the fleeting beauty of a sunrise or sunset perhaps, or freedom, nature, love...  I have tried to encapsulate some of my thoughts in this short poem. I hope you enjoy it.  PAUPER'S GOLD You drift in sunset over hills,  too soft to call your own. A shift of colour in the air,  a hush the wind has blown. No hand can hold the way you move,  no hedge can mark your place. But something lingers in your eyes,  A trace no wealth could chase. The light is different wher...
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Poem - Pink Jobs.

Born into a working‑class family in the 1970s, I was raised in a time when boys were expected to become 'providers', to be independent, practical, and work‑ready. Daughters, however, were expected to balance work with housework and family life. By the time I left high school, these ideas were beginning to loosen, but in my immediate family, at least, the expectations around what a girl should become were still firmly in place. These ideas shaped everything. How we behaved, the books we read (my favourite was Every Girl’s Handbook), the subjects we were encouraged to study, the careers we were steered toward, even the chores we were given at home. Like many children then, my sisters and I were raised by our Mum whilst our Dad, an electrician by trade, was the breadwinner. As a result, our 'preparation for life' revolved around the kitchen sink and the ironing board. We were Girl Guides taught to “think of others before ourselves and do a good turn every day.” When Dad wa...
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Butterfly On The Door

There's a butterfly on the door tonight. Its arrival was sudden, but its meaning is unmistakable. Its scarlet wings are vibrant and bright, yet also, somehow, ethereal against the stark wooden door.  Their shimmer defies the dim light of the corridor.  The eyespots on the tip of its wings are an iridescent blue edged in purple.  They are mesmerising and I get the sense that they are watching me.  I stand for a brief time meeting their gaze. I push open the door.  You are lying between fresh white sheets. You are still.  Silent and serene, surrounded by your nearest and dearest. I sit with them. I am one of them.  Gentle banter breaks out between us, your favourite tunes are the backdrop to our quiet conversations. The butterfly remains - silent - guarding the door against intrusion. The melancholic sound of a clarinet arrives too soon, haunting the air like a waiting phantom. A stranger stands on the shore.  It is you.  You are gazing out to ...
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