A Story of Love Like a River

They fell in love

they would wonder
if they had ever known the other
if they had merely fallen in love
with themselves

Even later
they would struggle
to remember
the other
the places their heart
meticulously mapped out

but deep in their hearts
was a solid line
with tributaries
like a river

when the moon was full
and the night was warm
and still
they would float on the surface
gliding on water like glass
and let themselves remember


A Memory for Mother’s Day

this is a couple of years old but it’s one of my favourite “Mothering” stories


I married a bass player when I was seventeen.

He had such confidence. His presence filled a room. His laugh was beyond contagious. It cast a spell over you and you couldn’t help but laugh with him. He was sexy and funny and loved by everyone. I adored him. And I loved him long after we parted ways because we both left pieces of our hearts behind.

He was also one of the most talented musicians, singers and songwriters I have ever met and he gave me my little boy.

But this one isn’t about him really. It’s about me again.

One hot Oklahoma summer, a guy with a banjo and a guitar and a guy learning to play guitar and two hippie chicks, with long hair that would catch in the breeze and float like feminine banners to the Goddess, decided they needed a weekend in the country. We drove to Madill, Oklahoma. On a few acres of land was a dilapidated two room farmhouse belonging to the guitar player’s grandfather. We wandered the hills during the day, making grand plans of communal living with music and art and organic farming and ovens baking manna from heaven.

However, that night the two boys played guitar by the light of the moon and a few kerosene lamps while the chicks sang along. One of the songs they played was this one. They always played this one. The guitar player was a perfectionist. I suppose most good musicians are. The hippie chick with the long dark hair had a tendency to go a bit flat or run out of breath. It frustrated him.

So she learned how to stand perfectly still in the moonlight in a pair of low slung bell bottom jeans that dragged the ground, a thin magenta halter top that exposed her belly, her baby boy in nothing but a diaper perched on her hip with one hand reaching for her long dangling earring while the other pulled on her soft, straight Cherokee hair, and sing softly to the one being who possessed the most amazing ability to love her unconditionally.

And in that moment in a deserted piece of countryside under a moon filled, starlit night, with her baby in her arms, a shy mother sang to her little boy and the world could not have been more perfect.






He was taller
than me

I don’t remember
how tall
six foot something

I was always
walking behind him
watching his
slim hips
in faded jeans

When I first met him
he looked like Jesus

he looked like
Freddie Mercury

I like
the interchangeability
of Jesus
and Freddie Mercury

I was not the Madonna
but still seemed
to always have
a baby
at my breast

and a scarf
my neck
with dreams
of Isadora Duncan
and the freedom
of dance
in my head

I baked
sweet things
for him
and filled him
with pots
of herbal teas

He wrote songs
sang for me
in ways
he could not possibly know

I always walked
behind him
let him tower
over me

There are
of beauty
so ineffable
that all you can do
is stand back
and let their light
touch you
knowing they will
never last

He was taller
than me

27 April 2018
Sussex Coast, England


Winter into Spring

So yesterday was the 8th day after Chemo and the first day I felt relatively human.

I still had a few moments where I had to sit down or fall down in a dramatic faint but definitely more stamina, more clarity. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to be able to think again.

Where I live this Easter holiday is experiencing its last gasp of winter flowing off the Siberian plains. In fact, it’s not that cold where I am, just damp and gloomy.

Today we took both dogs to the vet which is always exciting. English Springer Spaniel’s can be a handful and so very wild and free and happy. Well, mine is anyway. We rescued her from an abusive situation so I spoil her shamelessly. I feel no remorse for this at all.

But… winter is turning into Spring. I found flea dust on The Spaniel. Unfortunately with breast cancer the normal flea remedies are out of the question for us. Chemical fumes are out of the question. Chemicals in general are out of the question. So we’re moving to tablets.

Winter is turning into Spring.

It’s been raining. The ground is wet.

Just outside of the vet office is a small red post box stuck on a pole in the ground. At its base yellow daffodils cheerily bloom their hearts out.

Winter into Spring.

Dark gray skies and cold damp air and bunches of bright yellow everywhere. I love living here.

I read a post written by someone who is sitting with an old love as they go through the final stages of their terminal illness. She was requesting recommendations for the beautiful and uplifting as she sits with her loved one in her last days.

A friend recommended William Ackerman which reminded of a cold, wet, not quite Spring day in Oklahoma. I was tired and bored and brain dead from poverty when I stumbled into a record store and said, “Turn me onto something new.”

I can’t even imagine doing something like that now. Online social networking should be a godsend for introverts like me but it, in fact, it has increased my social anxiety and feelings of isolation. However, I have learned to spot the sacred in the profane and the music in silence.

Winter into Spring.

This punk rock guy in black leather and a Ramone’s t-shirt turned me onto Winter into Spring by George Winston, an early Windham Hill artist.

Honestly, I was sceptical at first, eyebrow definitely raised at a quirky angle but I liked the title. I bought it on vinyl. It was the 80s. I used to be impulsive. I’ve been listening to it every Spring for decades. Of course, now I have the mp3 version.


Winter into Spring

Maybe you would like it too.