Whispers and Wanderings

" 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...

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...

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 ...