Of the many things
that have been a regret
"putting down the pen"
has been most rude.

In London’s solemn Poets’ Corner stands,
A stone of memories, carved by gentle hands.
Eighty-five years since its first debut,
Yet names were incomplete, a hidden rue.

Amidst the shadows of a war-torn night,
Charlotte, Emily, and Anne lost their light,
The dots above their names—a simple grace—
Forgotten in the haste, in that troubled space.

Sharon Wright, with keen and watchful eye,
Spotted the error, wondered why.
“Have they not earned this small tribute,
To mark their legacy, resolute?”

With a stonemason’s tap, the dots took form,
A celebration of sisters, in art reborn.
Painted with care, the correction shines,
Echoing the strength of their woven lines.

From Bradford’s heart, where their stories bloom,
Wright sought to banish the lingering gloom.
For every tale of love, loss, and strife,
Deserves to be honoured, enriched with life.

Now near Dickens and Austen, their names align,
In the warmth of remembrance, their spirits entwine.
Eighty-five years later, at last they belong,
A tribute to brilliance, a sweet, timeless song.

In Kilmarnock's print, a treasure lies,
A first edition, where history sighs,
From eighteen eighty-six, its verses flow,
Robert Burns’ heart, in dialect aglow.

Poems Chiefly In The Scottish Dialect,
Whispers of love, and nature’s effect,
Expected to fetch a princely sum,
Fifty to sixty thousand—oh, how it’ll hum!

Once just six hundred, a modest start,
Three shillings it cost, a work of pure art,
Yet within a month, the copies all gone,
Burns' voice, like a lark, sung sweet at dawn.

“To A Mouse” and “The Twa Dogs” share,
Stories of life, in the Scottish air,
At twenty-seven, with passion he wrote,
A legacy penned in each heartfelt note.

Now just eighty-eight copies remain,
A glimpse of the past, a poet’s refrain,
As the auction approaches, the whispers grow loud,
For the magic of Burns, we all stand so proud.

being an unlit candle
an unlit match stick
will surely not suffice
neither the twain shall meet
unless you strike one
the other remains and
unless the lit shall kiss it
the other still abides

Yesterday’s spoken word

Today’s unvoiced silence

Tomorrow’s welcomed regret

press Play and tap Mute

Flickering screen brings slumber.

once nimble fingers
grasp at lithe reeds
as they slip and dance
in a breeze’s lullaby
ever present companions
as days turn into nights

The mailbox is usually empty
What with the P.O. Box and
social media, emails, SMS
all so many differing ways
to keep ourselves in touch.
But this day’s walk down the
drive had changed the day!
A notice arrived, in paper
from hospital’s renal unit.
This path may lead clear
or perhaps to dialysis or
even a kidney transplant.
So look out, Tomorrow
quite surely here we come.