COBWEBS BLOWN

This morning the air brings the faint smell of wood smoke and whispers Autumn.

Alt text says this week’s photo is two women taking a selfie. I say it is me and Kath having a seaside stroll on the last day of August. One of us paddled and we both had chocolate ice-cream. A quick jaunt to blow away the cobwebs which is our way of saying let’s be us and make sure our souls are shiny.

During the week I had a couple of walks to stretch myself. First, I made sure I could walk up Moel Famau without stopping, and on a different day I went for the kind of walk that needed to last for three hours and include some hills so that I could test out my stamina levels. Kath had bought me new socks for the occasion, and I wore my fully loaded rucksack and took two peppermint creams in my pocket. I enjoyed making up my route as I went along and am looking forward to seeing how well it has prepared me for walking up Snowdon for sunrise. I think I will take another snack to accompany my peppermint creams and am also predicting that my legs will ache the following day!

I have taken a glance backwards this week to see where I have come from to get to this point. So many years of September marking the start of a new year makes this the kind of habit that is ingrained for me, and I do like the freshness of any kind of new beginning. I can see I have been determined to improve my fitness, and I love the way I have heard continued echoes of self-encouragement as well as wonderfully wise words from friends and family. I have definitely improved my ability to work within a stretch zone instead of a comfort zone, and I can see how I can make even more of this going forward.

There is something spangly about this being episode 99 of this particular blogging where each Monday sees me recording what the air smells like, and I love the fact I can clearly remember some of the scents without even rereading the entries. A webinar with Ruby Wax this week (and I am still kicking myself that I didn’t speak to her when I saw her walking the same road as me in Chester) made some interesting points about mindfulness. For me the anchoring of my sense of smell and the rhythmic nature of walking are my favourite ways of being in the moment. They suit me and do me good.

My new relationship with Monday mornings began two years ago when I made the promise to myself to get up early each Monday and see what the world smelt like wherever I was. It came about because I knew I wouldn’t be driving to work each morning and therefore my morning tweets would disappear. It was also enhanced by my noticing that the air smelt of raw meringue one day when I was out walking in the rain.

Next week to mark episode 100 I would love you to join me in recording what the air smells like where you are and if you think you might forget and want to take a deep in breath through your nose today instead then feel free to send me your observations.

I note that the first poem that was included in this blog was the following and I include it again now for old times sake and because there was an Autumn spider in the hallway the other night. I wouldn’t have even noticed the creature if my walking app hadn’t said I needed another 232 steps to reach my target and I decided to walk up and down to achieve them!

This Was Once a Good Poem

but it has eaten cheese and pickle rolls for a week now

and it can’t work out why the vitamins aren’t working.

It rocks in the chair until its eyes are too tired to see

and has scared itself with thoughts of Autumn spiders

under glasses in the hallway.

It is wondering if it is true that conkers in corners

keep arachnids at bay

and is now standing in the dark

sniffing last year’s horse chestnuts

desperate to find their scent.

Originally published by Ink, Sweat and Tears

NEW SHOES

This morning the air smells cleansed and grassy.

Alt text says this week’s photo is pairs of shoes on the floor. I say it is a set of insoles that have gone in the bin beside a pair of new ones that have been inserted into my old walking shoes.

Late August was always the time for new shoes for me. Part of the ritual of marking the approach of a new school year was the selecting and purchasing of a pair of shiny black shoes. This year I bought new walking shoes instead, and I bought them early. I also bought new insoles for my old walking shoes in case there wasn’t time to break in the new ones before climbing Snowdon. My old walking shoes have had lovely adventures in Guernsey as well as being part of my local walks, and based on how long I have had them I predicted that buying a new pair would be the last time I would need to make such a purchase. I felt a little bit sad until I realised just how far the new ones have walked in their first month. My older ones had only lasted so long and stood the test of time so well because they weren’t used so much in the past. They have a few more miles in them yet and are certainly improved by having their new inserts, and it will be interesting to see where the new ones take me.

The most recent Mary Chapin Carpenter album ‘Personal History’ has been the soundtrack to every solo walk I have taken since it was released at the start of June, and I laugh each time ‘Bitter Ender’ comes on because I think I might be a bitter ender when it comes to shoes. As well as clocking up the miles in designated walking shoes I walked the heel area completely off a pair of slip-on shoes in the past year or so. I think the ease of putting those shoes on tempted me to wear them far more than they were suited for. Pleasingly my Hurry Up driver doesn’t appear these days when I am putting shoes on so tying laces does not make me feel like sighing or lead me to wearing the wrong kind of footwear. A quick check of the apps on my phone says that’s over 7000 minutes of the beautiful singing of Mary Chapin Carpenter, and I still love listening to it.

I read this week that in September they will be closing the road where I take my country walk. Because it will be shut for twelve weeks this feels like the end of an era for that particular routine. It will also mark the summiting of Snowdon so even though I won’t be ditching my soundtrack I reckon I will be enjoying finding a new route for strolling out.

I am going to make the following poem my poem of the month for September on my YouTube channel – it was recorded for Poetry Archive Now WordView 2025, and entries for videos close on 31st August. I always enjoy listening to all the poetry videos submitted for this feature and seeing which ones would be in my top ten.

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO ACHIEVE?

A gold medal pings into my mind as the question lands between us in the silence. But I can’t say gold medal because I don’t know exactly what I want it for. My mind pictures me standing there at the award ceremony, bowing my head forward a little in readiness for the presentation. The ribbon brushes my hair, and I feel the warmth of the fingers of the woman transferring the medal as her hands knock against my ears. My head is cumbersome. People with cumbersome heads shouldn’t be getting medals. The applause suddenly feels false, and I didn’t even hear the start of it. I need to hear the beginning of the congratulatory clap. I need to be in the moment. I change my wish. I want a gold medal that fits easily over my head. No, I know what I want… I want a head that fits through the gap in a medal ribbon without causing a kerfuffle for the person handling the ceremony. I want it all to look flawless so everyone remembers me standing on that podium being given a medal. Given, that’s an interesting word. Medals are won not given. Not in a tombola, one in a hundred chance kind of way. You earn a medal by setting a goal and working on it. Over and over again until you are the best you can be. There’s that question again, What would you like to achieve?

CLAPPING WITH MY HEART

This morning I am glad of the smell of cold air with a tinge of earthiness as I push my nose close to the gap of the hotel window which does not open far. Yesterday the corridors smelt of warmed bodies and hot food, and with no draught to waft it fresher it was not the kind of smell I wanted in my nostrils if you catch my drift! Hence breathing out the window to note the scent first thing this morning rather than facing a possible revisiting of last night’s findings. I am hoping that you will join in with what the air smells like where you are for my 100th blog (it is only three weeks away!) and I am sending positive vibes for clear scents that awaken your senses in a good way.

Alt text suggests this week’s photo depicts a statue of a person falling off a hill. I say it is Ronnie making the most of jumping for joy whilst visiting the statue of The Angel of the North.

This week I have been reflecting on how much joy it brings me when poetry and coaching combine. There is something there about the role of poetry in coaching and something too about seeing where I have got to in my journey and how well I know myself since I changed my career after thirty years. That’s quite a lot to think about so my brain has been interestingly busy on my walks this week!

In simple terms I summarise this to myself as poetry giving me the words to express myself and coaching giving me the confidence to enter rooms. Of course there is much more at play than this… friendships, welcome, connections… but I am enjoying finding the spaces that bring all this together. Having two hugely important elements of my life mingling and intertwining feels refreshing and I am excited to see what else will evolve from this mix.

This week I have been clapping with my heart. If you have shared time with me then you may well have experienced my joyful clapping alongside moments of connection and moments of hilarity – a vibrant, energetic clapping that is spontaneous in its appearance. This week I shared space with people that led to the gentle heartfelt clapping of pure gratitude in recognition of human kindness – this I call clapping with my heart. It happens softly in the presence of friends. It happens empathetically when being part of a group joined together by words and love. It happens when people recognise one another and take time to say so. It happens when I lie in bed after taking time to stand under the night sky and wait for shooting stars.

Here’s to all kinds of joy… exuberant joy, cartwheeling joy, and the kind of joy that rests in the heart and echoes.

This week’s poem (a poem that gives me joy in a prose poem kind of way) was written recently in recognition of the times it is difficult to find peace.

EVENSONG

Today I am in church again. I have come for silent reflection in one of my favourite seats, but it feels a little closer to the edge than usual. Shuffling footsteps in the aisle have me predicting who might be about to go past. Slowly and steadily polar bears are settling into the pews around me. Their black claws lightly clasp copies of The Book of Common Prayer. One across the aisle is flicking the pages randomly as if speed reading, another puffs out fishy breath in celebration of finding the right page. One on the row in front asks me if I am going to sing today. I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out. The bear smiles encouragingly before turning back to face the altar. The pair who held one another’s hands to get to the front row wink at me when the rector says we’re going to the pub afterwards. There’s a dubious stain on the opening pages of my hymn book. I keep it tightly shut, resist the urge to look again at the hint of fingerprints within the brown.  And I am worried that the youngest bear is going to bite the gold cross and I won’t know whether to try to stop him or not.

EVENING SUN

This morning, at ‘The Angel of the North’ the air smells of heather and lavender.

Alt text isn’t offering a suggestion for this week’s photo, but I say it is Kath and me capturing a photo during a stroll by the river after the first day of the yarn show we attended at the weekend. After a full on day it was nice to walk in someone else’s city, and I love the way the evening sun makes the white on my hair glow and puts an extra shine on Kath’s blue. A moment of quiet in a busy world. I know that it relaxed me because I then became curious to look on a map to find out whereabouts in the country we were. When we drove up I was solely focused on being helpful with yarn type things and although I knew we were in Newcastle I didn’t have a clear idea geographically of what that meant. My phone map was super helpful and I realised how different it feels from turning the pages in a road atlas. Very helpful for putting it all in context especially for someone who had to concentrate hard when they moved from one map page to another in the past.

I was inspired by the people I met this weekend who were keen to take on a new challenge. Great conversations about wanting to achieve something ‘stretchy’. There’s joy in this kind of conversation as well as the chats where there is the sharing of a sense of humour and a chuckle along the way. I still remember when I felt rather out of my depth being at yarn shows when I first started helping out and I can see that I too have achieved something stretchy that makes me feel proud.

When we set up the stand this weekend we had a 6m long space and it was impressive to see all Kath’s  samples and patterns set up. A momentary pause to stand back to look at all the good work that has been achieved gave me a tingly feeling of celebration and pride.

A trip to Manchester for Liz Gibson’s book launch resulted in me receiving a new description of my hair. Wait for it… “anti-gravity hair”. A chance encounter whilst queuing for tea and cake meant a man took the opportunity to tell me he liked my anti-gravity hair. I am adding that description to “You always have really surprised hair,” and they both make me chuckle.

The book launch was a delight from start to finish. I have always loved Liz’s poetry and to have a whole collection to enjoy is celebratory. It was wonderful to hear them read by the author and I love the additional immersion in words this brings. The evening included guest readers and an interview with the artist who designed the cover for ‘A Love the Weight of An Animal’. A perfect way to launch this well written collection.

I am the ‘Silver Branch’ featured writer this month for Black Bough so I thought I would share a poem from the ones celebrated there…

Sue Finch – August 2025 | Mysite

It’s a prose poem to celebrate the fact I love prose poems and that Kath recently exclaimed, “You mean there are poets who write whole books of prose poems?” 

GOING TO THE CAVES

I am in a long queue for the cave tour. Stalagmites and stalactites are promised. I fear tightness, and more than that, being trapped. The guide tells us that we will see crystals the like of which we’ve never seen before. Then he warns us that there are times when it smells like multi-storey car park stairwells and sometimes all the torches fail. When I look at him, he reaches into his pocket. Here, he says, as if reading my mind, if you can’t get out, take one of these. He offers me a circular, chalky-white tablet which I accept as he nods. It will kill you painlessly, almost instantly. I follow him, wondering if I will swallow the pill.

YELLOW STRETCHY MAN

This morning the sky is grey, the wind is gathering, and there are notes of coffee on the air.

I have upped my walking lately and have been able to climb Moel Famau three times in the last week or so. It has been important to me to push myself and see how this feels ahead of summiting Snowdon. I have been spurred on by reaching my sponsorship target and by seeing my own progress. I have laughed when I have to dig deep into self-coaching to get cracking and am glad I listen to myself and know that repeated actions are making a slow and steady difference. I love that each person I have told about my walking and what I am aiming for has offered a different point of view. These interactions have added to my developing picture of what I am doing and how I can stretch myself to keep improving.

Alt text says this week’s photo shows a yellow plastic toy on a wood surface. I say it is an intact yellow stretchy man who I am not currently stretching. Instead I have placed him on my writing desk for a photo opportunity. I am giving him a nod of thanks, and I won’t be pulling his arms too hard. In fact I am going to put him a jar of his very own to keep him dust free and away from my grip.

Some time ago I bought one of these for each of the people in my supervision group. Delighted to be able to play with mine at the meeting I was a little over zealous in stretching his arms out and perhaps enjoying the elastic stretch and boing of him rather too much because all of a sudden he snapped. I was left holding his arms whilst gazing at his body on the floor. I found myself laughing at the very surprise of how quickly he was altered at the same time as feeling rather disappointed that my toy had broken, and there he was simply smiling back at me.

Choosing to frame the moment in a poem was important to me for a couple of reasons. One, being to capture a moment in time and my observations of his “bitten muffin” shoulders. And the other being to remember the joy of that supervision group and its importance in giving me a safe space to be myself. A space I truly valued. A space where the busy world paused a while for deep reflection and thought. The members of the group brought listening ears, laughter, shoulders to cry on and made a real difference to me. A group that saw you step back out into the day with relaxed shoulders, a clearer mind and a focussed way forward. I think they would like the poem dedicated to the yellow stretchy man and I am glad that it has found its home in Steel Jackdaw Magazine.

YELLOW STRETCHY MAN

I like his resilience.

His arms outstretched and thin.

I meet his gaze

our smiles serene.

My stress toy

has me laughing.

I pull his arms

faster and faster.

And when he snaps he doesn’t

even twang.

The exposed rough breaks

of his shoulders

are like bitten muffins.

I hold his hands,

see his smiling broken body on the ground.

I pick him up

determined to pull off his legs in one go.

STRIDING OUT

This morning the air carries the scents of fuchsia and tea rose, and I wonder whether an elephant hawk moth is eating leaves somewhere close by.

Alt text states this week’s photo is a person in a graduation gown. I say it is one of my special someones striding out in a mortar board and gown. 

I clapped and clapped and my hands were wonderfully tingly in celebration of all those at the ceremony. And I loved so many parts of it… that buzz of so much potential gathered temporarily in one place… the lump in my throat… the tear in my eye…the nudge and smile I got from the woman next to me in response to my extra loud applause and my heartfelt ’Yay’ on hearing their name called… the fact she whooped too…the photos…the meal out afterwards. That’s a great kind of striding out.

My kind of striding out was wetter and sensing that the photos would be far less frameable I made a video instead. I took a walk up Moel Famau. It looked grey in the distance as I drove towards it, but I had checked the weather forecast locally and it didn’t seem to be raining. I was wrong about that, and very glad to have packed my rucksack so that I could get used to walking with it before climbing Snowdon in a few weeks. I had forgotten my hat so as the rain wet my hair and the wind blew the large droplets in my face I reminded myself that I had chosen to do this and I would feel the benefit later. I took the shorter route up, and paused on the bench before the last steep bit to the summit to catch my breath, but I did it. I was indeed striding out with a purpose!  People are friendly on the hills and there were plenty of us having our own kind of walks and after a while you forget that you might look a little bit wild and just crack on because people still talk to you just the same. I am however looking forward to a drier version of the walk and I have located the perfect pocket to tuck my hat in so it is ready just in case.

When not striding out this week I have landed on the settees of friends and family for cups of tea or fizzy orange. Laughter, company and conversation in these places has gladdened my heart and made sure I am striding out with a spring in my step.

Here’s to all the strides we take and all those people who cheer us on.

Last July in his blog I shared my poem The Clock Ticks Louder Now as a nod to the Hurry Up driver in me that wants results quickly. I will share it again now and tip my hat to the fact that a year on I am celebrating the joy of repeated actions over time, and can recognise when the ‘Hurry Up’ is useful and when it needs to be quietened.

THE CLOCK TICKS LOUDER NOW

For the last three months the red clock

we rehomed from the charity shop

has been ticking more loudly.

I used to only notice if I listened.

Then I started to hear it when I bent down

to turn on the tv.

After that, I heard it each time I swapped shoes

for slippers in the hallway.

Now I can hear it when I lie in bed;

through two shut doors.

I dread lying down.

The space between the tick and tock

is just the same hyphened gap,

but my pulse tells me there’s something wrong.

I have started watching YouTube videos on double speed

eating my toast when it is a shade lighter than caramel

and there’s this voice in my head constantly

chanting, Hurry up, hurry up.

My thanks to Alan Parry for including this poem in his Coffeehouse Podcast in July 2024

ENTHUSIASTIC APPLAUSE

This morning I am interested in what the air smells like where you are. I am also interested in whether you will, in the future, help me to celebrate my hundredth episode by taking note of what the morning air is scented with on that particular day. If my calculations are correct the one hundredth episode will be on Monday 8th September and I would love to collate as many responses as possible to mark the occasion. That episode will also coincide with my blog being two years old. One hundred episodes over two years charting a new journey and keeping the promise to embrace Monday mornings. That feels good.

Alt text says this week’s photo is two women taking a selfie. I might say it is two women standing in a field readying for a concert and my sister would say it is not a field. She would be right because Dreamland Margate, which is where we were, has artificial grass and is in a town, but we were definitely readying for a concert. And it felt rather like being in a field.

It seems my sister and I have invented another tradition to go alongside our ‘sisters at the snooker’. Our new one is a July concert at Dreamland Margate. Last year we saw Suede and Manic Street Preachers and this year KT Tunstall and Texas. We are already wondering who we will see next year.

And breaking news… I can clap in time in certain circumstances! I have discovered that I can find that rhythm… when I am at an outdoor concert, when I really like the song, and when it’s been in my heart for a long time. Having not really ever been a clapper-alonger before this is worthy of a little celebration. My dancing is still a little on the wrong side of rhythmic, but I can clap along and jump up and down in a relatively beat driven way. There was plenty for me to get my hands in the air for at the concert, and lots of singing along too. 

There’s something rejuvenating about sunny evenings where your favourite bands play and you’re a few rows from the front. This was my first time seeing Texas live and they definitely brought the energy. It always feels like a gift to be in the presence of talent, and I love it! I loved the fact that a whole crowd of people applauded enthusiastically when Sharleen Spiteri took her jacket off after the first song. I loved the joy of hearing a set list of songs from my younger music video consuming days. I loved that the concert ended with an excellent version of Suspicious Minds. I loved that I got to share this experience.

In a week where I have shared time over iced coffees and been invited to zoom room shenanigans as well as taking a mini road trip to stand in a field that is not a field I find much to applaud enthusiastically. Here’s to all the things that bring us the kind of joy that make us clap our hands together both literally and metaphorically.

It feels apt to share a poem about clapping, but please note it is the kind of clapping at the opposite end of the continuum to the ones described above!

CLAPPING

You can hear your own clapping

louder than anyone else’s.

You are not matching the rhythm

of anyone in this room.

Soon they will be looking at you

willing you to stop.

You try to change the way

your hands hit one another

but you cannot unhollow the sound.

HOW IT STARTED, HOW IT’S GOING

This morning the cool air is very welcome. It carries the vague scent of cut flower stems.

Alt text suggested this week’s photos could be a collage of a person lying on the grass or a collage of a person smiling. I say it is my author photo from 2020 alongside one of my author photos from 2025.

I still like the photo of me lying in the rosemary from five years ago, but can never unsee the single hair under the word poet which escaped my notice at the time. And I really like the recent photo. It’s actually me!

Not only can I face the camera and smile now, I am also willing to pose for more than one photo at a time. That’s a lot of progress. And I am proud and intrigued to look back and see where I have come from. Of course if you ask Kath how difficult I find it to stand still and gaze into the middle distance or how many photos we rejected along the way there is a story there too!

A look backwards before continuing forwards, gives the perfect opportunity to highlight the moments worth celebrating. It also shows the value of repeated actions over time. I have increased my daily walk to 55 minutes instead of 40 and found the additional motivation I needed in the latest Mary Chapin Carpenter album ‘Personal History’. It has been the soundtrack to my walk since it was released in early June and now I can listen to the whole thing through and choose a couple of tracks to revisit as I end my walk. That album has been my constant companion every day and I love that I listen to it from beginning to end just like I listened to albums when I was young. It has a beautiful arc to it and is the perfect soundtrack to my walking this summer.

It was also a good job that whilst talking to my brother about my fitness journey he said, “I suppose you just keep extending what you are doing by a little bit more each time.” Just the right reminder nudge I needed to introduce that increase. It’s good to say things out loud and see how they sound in the air when you listen in. I also heard myself talking about wishing I regularly went for a walk at the beginning of the day and then heard my cogs whirring as I wondered why I didn’t and what the benefits would be if I did. I am not quite there with leaping out of bed to walk first thing, but I am making progress.

This week I am grateful for friends who have gone on walks with me, met me for coffee (which is often tea or water, but I call it coffee nonetheless), rung me just to say hello, and hugged me when we found ourselves brought together for a special occasion.

Here’s to hearing yourself think and finding the joy in sharing time with others.

Because I have started thinking about a possible entry for Poetry Archive NOW WordView 2025 here’s a poem that I enjoyed entering in the past. It’s about the pond in the park in Herne Bay. My brother and I used to canoe on it, my sister and I saw a gull eat a duckling after swooping for bread, and each visit home includes a walk to see if the terrapin is basking on the rock by the island. This poem was written after my sister rang me one day to tell me that the terrapin was not there but that she had seen an abandoned doll floating peacefully in the water.

NO TERRAPIN TODAY

Just her in the water.

The sun warming her as she floats.

A fallen leaf, landed beside her,

shines its green to the sky.

Branches and leaves pattern her outline

with their shadows.

You say you want to photograph her,

that you wonder what her eyes are seeing

as she lies unmoving in the water.

I can only think of thick mud

holding on tight to faded crisp packets.

But look, you say, she is smiling.

And she is.

Her long hair floats out like golden pondweed,

and she looks happy the abandoned doll;

eyes wide, eyelashes still curled,

that mouth.

As if she doesn’t even know

she was thrown in,

left behind.

ENTERING MY BLACK AND WHITE PHASE

This morning the air holds a hint of holly.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a person leaning against a brick wall. It is me and I am indeed leaning against a wall with the aim of getting used to having my photo taken. It is time for me to update some pics and my lovely wife has been offering to capture some images for me. There will be more to follow, but for now here I am leaning against a brick wall.

Do you ever hear an echo from the past when you are doing something in the present? This happens to me sometimes when I am having my photograph taken, and I remember being told I looked very serious once at an interview years ago and needed to smile more. Aaargh, that would be my serious, nervous face! It sometimes makes me think that this is what I am going to see when a photo is taken. It is good to face this head on (or indeed looking into the middle distance) and see how much I can move away from this. If you find me leaning on things and staring into the middle distance in the next week or so then please know I am working on building up my confidence in having my photo taken.

The past week had a bit of a National Trust theme. We had arranged to meet our lovely friends Sarah and Craig at a property that happened to be halfway between our two homes for a day trip. The night before, I checked I had my membership card only to find it was dated February. I then imagined a story in my head that we had been told there were no more membership cards as it was a waste of paper only to find out that we had indeed not renewed. We signed up again on the day and made use of the cards again at the end of the week to be able to spend time with my brother and his wife. There was even a poem about National Trust membership at the Crafty Crows poetry event I attended on Wednesday which made me laugh.

I love a walled garden to accompany a catching up with people and also enjoy asking the odd question as we go round the houses to find out a little more about the bits that intrigue or interest me. I am not really one for historical facts and dates, but I do like things! In one of the properties I saw a painting which seemed rather out of context with all the others because it was not a portrait. It featured a woman breastfeeding a man and by asking about the picture I was introduced to an ancient story that I had not previously encountered. Asking about a rather impressive lectern in a different property led to me setting a goal to find the raw materials to create something unique for poetry readings. I have set myself a year to find the right kind of stuff and can envisage a few trips to salvage yards or similar. I will enjoy sharing a photo or two when it is in existence.

Photos from our days out were colourful reminders of the time and space we shared and I was even able to invite my brother to tea at my house because he was staying nearby. I have been wanting to have a beer with my brother for quite some time and having expressed that wish to a friend recently it was wonderful to have that wish come true. It’s more about the time and space than the beer, but it was a delicious treat!

Here’s to all the ways of finding time and space to share with others that bring pure joy.

Here’s a poem that was written for the joy of walking near a river and noticing how it changes according to the amount of water it carries.

At Loggerheads

For The River Alyn as it flows through Loggerheads Country Park

Sometimes you lie dry.

Exposed furrows offer your mud

for footprints,

mosquitoes create whirlpools in the air. 

When you are full

your burble and flow

are in the folds of my brain

filtering my thoughts.

I lean over your bridge

for shadow photos.

You are dark. You are sparkling.

You are an almost mirror,

a depth, an ebb,

an onward.

A GREEN CARNATION

This morning the air holds the scent of oak and blackbirds are sounding their alarm calls.

Alt text says this week’s photo is a green object on a white plate. Kath says it did look better at the time. I say it is a twenty-three-year-old green carnation that will forever be one of the romantic things that symbolises me meeting my wife.

I was thinking about what it means to step into new things this week and perhaps this flower is a very good reminder of what can happen when you take the plunge and just do something. I loved that a woman I had never met said she would be wearing a green carnation and would meet me in a bar at 8pm on a Wednesday. I laugh at the fact I thought I was being helpful by saying I would wear a badge, but didn’t say that it would be on the hem of my jeans. I also laugh that I was thirty minutes early so that I could make sure I saw her walk in.

My thinking about being brave this week centred around finding an invitation from Kate Jenkinson to be a guest on LinkedIn live for her regular feature POETs Day. I have always wanted to be invited to such a thing so I said yes, did a little happy dance, and then contemplated what I needed to do to make sure I felt brave!

To get in the room I needed to channel my inner jaguar and remember the joy of being 10% braver. A grateful nod of thanks here to Rebecca Cuberli and Jaz Ampaw-Farr. Rebecca for the time and space to deeply explore my metaphors and Jaz for the idea of being 10% braver. Once in the space I could enjoy being the playful cat. 

Sometimes I still worry that I won’t know what to say or will run out of things to say when sharing space with others, but I am much better at answering that voice since coaching.  And talking one to one with someone is pure enjoyment for me so it’s well worth stepping into these spaces. I hold on tight to the knowledge that the best conversations give us time and space to be our authentic selves, and that is glorious. 

I had no idea it was International Pineapple Day until Kate mentioned it in her LinkedIn post and I loved the serendipity of the fact there was a poem on my desk with pineapples in it. I took this along to share, and I must say that being described as “The Perfect Guest”, was a wonderful comment to tuck safely in my confidence pocket. If I hadn’t had a poem I would have taken a tin of pineapple from the cupboard and celebrated that, but the poem was just the thing for a poet coach to take along. Kate and I had a wonderful chat about poetry and coaching and it put an extra sparkle into my Friday.

The poem was on my desk because Louise Longson had invited me to be one of her guests for her poetry event ‘Last Saturday’. This invite also widened my knowledge of celebration/commemoration days and I chose to follow up on the following themes that Louise mentioned when writing to me: World Sand Dune Day, Insect Week, Armed Forces Celebration Day and Pride. It felt good to put together poems to match the different themes and try them out together in a zoom room.

I will definitely be returning to the event as an avid listener because the range of readers that Louise brings together is superb and the format and length is just right. One hour or thereabouts of quality words beautifully shared. I also look forward to finding out which other calendar days are noted and celebrated, and I get the feeling it might inspire me to write a poem if I don’t have something suitable to hand.

Here’s Trawling on A Day’s Leave which sets down on the page what my Great Uncle once set down as a part of an oral history project. It was also pinned to Reculver on the Places of Poetry Map in 2019.

TRAWLING ON A DAY’S LEAVE, 1943

Too waterlogged to haul over the side

even for the strong arms

of you and your father.

You roped him to the boat,

tied him on the stern for towing behind.

He couldn’t be left to float;

he needed to come out trawling,

the dead man.

You took him with you to catch the tide.

For the living, for the food.

As the boat picked up speed

you couldn’t help but watch the almost enthusiastic

movement of his legs as he rode the waves

the three long miles to Reculver.

Back in town, the pineapples you brought from The Azores

were lined up in shop windows for all to see

while you delivered your German airman,

a line of bullets across his back,

to the coastguard station.