On this Father’s Day I’m sharing a picture of my dad from 1966.

My sisters’ names are on the chalkboard. I was a mere twinkle in his eye at this point – he was on an Antarctic expedition and some 5000km from my mother 🙂

Ocean True

Strewn saffron strands paint the sky

as morning birds float gently by

The waves creep onto my shore

leeching a salted residue

like sweat evaporated on skin

low tide reveals my within

Shallow rock pools

brimming with shine

medusa sea grasses

suspended in brine

and starfish curl and sway

whisper good morning, good day


Ocean renew me in cyclic refrain

infuse me with currents

from warmed summer rain

as my heart


For a moment I lost track of time

is it morning, or afternoon

and are you still mine?


Are the footprints on the porch

you coming or leaving?

Are we acres of joy

or vast fields of grieving?


And who is the man in the picture

on the wobbled side table?

I’d tell you his name

if I were but able


Besides him smiles the lovely bride

I have that dress don’t I….

and posy bouquet, but dried?


Where am I again

and will I ever be

reunited with you

in full clarity….



Image is my first foray into the world of macro. Inspired by Pete Hillman and his beautiful blog (petehillmansnaturephotography). Of course, when you are focussed on the world of miniature: a type of meditation ensues and for me, words tumble. Enjoy.



One cannot force the hand of fate

You are a child at the playground’s locked gate

She is the Italian train, forever late

Or the distracted friend on a coffee date

“sorry there in ten”

Sit tight and wait


One cannot slow the hands of time

Her heavy fruit falls from the vine

Another birthday, spill some wine

A final, exquisite aria line

audience encore

how sublime!

No Vacancy

Perhaps there is no vacancy

within this heart of mine

Barren chambers barely fill

if bound by knotted twine
Perhaps you think you’ve found the key

That it should slide in


Yet, even words of graphite dust

shall fail against the lock’s



Perhaps in time you shall forget

but Dearest,

don’t stop trying yet
Happy mid week to all the hopeless romantics. 

Last page


in a musty corner of a book store

sit I

Beneath yellowed newsprint and papers high


Neither first edition nor collector’s find

A battered book

beyond it’s prime

The gilded print worn off my spine


Regard my tufted leather edge

from forlorn lover’s finger pledge

Cotton binding frayed by touch


So let me rest in dust some more

by the sombre Mahler score

my last page ripped out

years before

Knock knock

Let love in

when she taps at your door

Ask once “who is it?”

and thereafter, question no more


Invite her to dine at your table

offer the comfortable chair

Pour her a fruity elixir

serve fresh oysters…

if you dare!


Gather your courage and ask her

“Did you get lost on the way?”

how you had given up waiting

“Not ready” she will quietly say


A simple Saturday night ditty 🙂