My body
has turned

I have

how to listen
how to see

The dawn chorus
used to slip between
the cracks
of my resistance
until hope
a beating heart

the silence
is impenetrable

While my body
rants and raves
at the unfairness
at the insistence
that each tiny
each birth
of an idea
must be
by pain
by impossibilities

It is 3 am
I am trying
to teach myself
how to listen again
even as my hip
begins to spasm

The birds
will come soon
I’m trying to be ready

23 December 2019
Sussex Coast

Sunset on the South Downs ~ Photography by me

The Gate

Like a gate that never opens
or one the never closes
or one banging in the wind
squeaking on one rusty hinge

My mind is not mine
just a bit of flotsam
lost to the irrational
forces of nature
or is it nurture?

I listen for your song
on the wind
weather storms
and still silences
on one rusty hinge.


A Ramble on Quality of Life

Quality of Life is a recurring theme in my appointments with cancer doctors. Some people’s bodies and minds adjust quite well. Some don’t. I’m in the latter category. They remind me of the myriad of preexisting conditions and traumas my body had experienced before cancer and the trauma of treatment. Apparently my body is tired and a bit worn out.

I woke up in the middle of the night in pain and overcome by nausea and that sinking feeling knowing I wouldn’t fall asleep again and the exhaustion of trying to accept the realities of my new post cancer life.

Sometimes I think it would be better if there was no before for comparison. Sometimes I wonder if surviving cancer is the right thing, the kind thing. I am trying to find something I can do with these last years and my lack of mobility. I think I would like to be a student again. I loved college. I was good at being a student. So maybe my hobby will be learning.

Sorry. Rambling thoughts. I didn’t sleep. My head hurts. That phantom place where the incision was made hurts. Damaged nerves. Damaged lives.


by Josephine Robin Dalton
Not particularly a relevant photo other than it being a revered place of learning. Radcliffe Camera, Oxford ~ October 2010


Reading Poetry

New poetry I’m reading. I had to look up Erato. I had forgotten. She was one of the Greek Goddesses, the muse of erotic poetry and mime.

I was reading a novel but it failed to hold my attention. So now I’m sliding down the rabbit hole into poetry.


We Watched the Moon

Last night
we watched
the moon

It was golden
and slowly
into the darkness
of a summer night
until it stopped
hanging there
like a sacred vessel
waiting to be filled

I’m just
a microscopic
a molecular


for a moment
I think
I believe

I filled the moon
up with my breath

and a sigh

and a shared smile
before we returned
to our lives once again

with wisps of the sacred
trailing behind us

18 July 2019