Dream Kitchen

Why dream of a kitchen like those on TV?
(Gemstones on a work top? Give me jewellery!)
In my dreams, a kitchen is not about looks –
but filled with food memories from childhood books,
where Alice ate cake hoping she would get big,
while a cat watched a duchess pepper a pig,
where Narnian badgers baked marmalade rolls
and a much-loved bear had a small smackerel –
and a hobbit found himself hosting some dwarves
who ate all his food and then juggled his forks.

But, my ultimate kitchen fantasy?
A kitchen where somebody else cooks for me!


Almost An Ocean

Then along comes a moment
that’s empty, a vessel
for something that someone should say.
But without a remark
which will anchor it fast,
the moment is drifting away.

And the inches between us
are almost an ocean,
and almost as awkward to cross.
This thing that we’ve started,
the water’s uncharted
and we’re both afraid we’ll be lost.

So I search for a word which
can carry the meaning
of all that I want you to know,
but deep down I’m really
not sure what I’m feeling –
it’s too far for one word to go.

And the inches between us
are almost an ocean,
but that doesn’t mean we can’t try.
We could both reach the shore,
and that’s got to mean more
than maybe being left high and dry.


This lion once lay by Britannia’s side –
on a ten pence I wore the crown with pride.
But now that’s the only place I’m complete;
on the two pence – I’ve got no feet.
The twenty pence is even worse –
all you can see of me is my arse!
On the five I’m just a head and a tail –
the whole design is an epic fail.
(A coin without a number in sight?
Even the euro could get that right.)
Oh, sometimes you’ll see me, rampant, alone
or with the unicorn, guarding the throne,
and (rarely) a trio of lions, couchant –
but most days a dragon is easier to spot.

Across the currency we’re scattered;
Britannia’s lions, her pride, in tatters.

The Joy Of Trucks

Using public transport
is more often trial than joy,
but today behind me on the bus
I heard a little boy

sitting on his mother’s lap,
face against the glass,
calling names of vehicles
whenever they went past.

Cars, he didn’t bother with;
he wanted things like “truck”
“ambulance” and “caravan”
or “double-decker bus”.

Then we stopped by a building site –
his poor brain overloaded.
So many names burst out of him,
I thought that he’d exploded.

“Forklift truck!” he screamed with glee.
“Lorry – cement mixer!
Caterpillar truck! A crane!
Van! Bulldozer! Digger!”

It made the whole bus smile.
And me? I wished I shared his luck –
to have a child’s uncomplicated life,
the joy of trucks.