I was born and bred in Stone-in-Oxney in 1958 (A man of Kent), although temporarily exiled to Hastings.

I have toyed with poetry on and off since leaving school but have regarded myself as neither readable nor prolific.

In recent years I was conned into writing a poem for a friends wedding, with the promise that all the guests would be writing and reading their own works. Needless to say I was the only contributor. I have since sought my revenge by writing about any event significant to their family. My favourite of these poems stems from a gin induced conversation in which my friends were contemplating how they would raise their second child, Phoebe. Their children and pets are often the catalyst for some of the short poems (Poems that small children can remember).

I wrote the winning poem for September (The Pal's Anniversary) to accompany a short ghost story. The story centres on the ghost of a small child, who died at the beginning of WW1 and relates to a brigade slaughtered on their first day of battle. The story had been written in conjunction with Oxney author, John Howlett, as the basis for a treasure hunt to raise money for the village memorial hall.

More recent works (and works in progress) are being inspired by Karen, without whom I would not have rediscovered emotions, that I thought had been made redundant twenty years ago. With my new incentive I may yet become prolific or even readable.

The "Pals", on the marsh the night before
had promised to come back

To reminisce and drink the health
of their colleagues, dressed in black.

The brigade had numbered forty souls
a community at arms.

They had left their wives and loved ones
their families, their farms.

Right from the start the soldiers knew
the battle plan was flawed
as well-fed brass, in ivory towers
moved pictures 'round the board

Knowing best, the top brass said
"Moral victory's at hand".

Then without debate they sealed their fate
and issued the command.

The men, calf-deep in blood-tinged mud
crouched 'till the whistle blew.

Bittersweet tones through the battle din
spurred on the gallant crew.

It took twenty-three minutes for the unseen guns
to slay the village brigade.

The "Five-nines" left hollow memorials
for the bodies, where they lay.

From time to time in Appledore
and towards the Saxon Shore
the brigade "it's said" can be heard again
heading off to war

Some have seen them and some have heard
the message that they give
"Our deaths have bought the freedom
that allows good men to live".

Do not mourn our passing
but remember and be glad
and think of what you can achieve
not what you may have had.

I'd have taken your frustration,
your incapacity,
in exchange for a brief period
of sweet lucidity
to express my love, and hear you say
the things that we both know.

I felt the time was coming
that I had to let you go

There were times, before you died
when the dialogue was strained.

My soul, like your frail body
felt traumatized and drained.

But when a glimmer did appear
it painted better things,
a portrait of a better time
when you would laugh and sing.

Oh mother, how you could sing.

And I'm sure that you will sing again,
not for the ears of us
but for the friends and family
and ancestors long passed.

I shall hear you sing again,
just as you always would,
with the clarity of angels
that makes the heart feel good.