My Name is

Gwared. Gareth.

Gentle on the listening ear.

Caredig. Cariad.

I’ve slowly come to love it.

Affectionate. Friendship.

Gaz – the name that seals it.

Gary. Mate.

Two words that will break it.


I seek what I cannot find,

speak what I cannot say, listen

for words with no meaning,

knock on doors to find an answer

not given.



yellow with age,

arms becoming bare

as hands lose their grip

on labour’s reward,


falling to the ground,

rosy and ripe,

as planets, out of orbit,

slowly decaying

beneath a solar system


in a winter of discontent.

Autumn Leaves

Leaves lie sullen

on the wet ground

with colours unmuted

for their autumn passing,

creating a perfect patchwork,

ablaze with their demise,

breathing one last breath

before returning to a former life.


I can write

but am I a writer?

If I’m a writer,

can I write?

Each time, the blank page

asks the same question

and each time I’m afraid

of the answer.

Spilt Milk

I cried over spilt milk today.

It was nothing, yet it was everything.


The tears came as a flood,

bursting through my heart’s dam,

each drop diluted in the semi-skimmed substance

whose white innocence became my own.


This accidental act was my undoing

yet also my making, as the fallen regret commingled

to create a mixture of guilt and release;

an answered prayer; a mistake

containing a moment of grace.


I cried over spilt milk today.

It was nothing, yet it was everything.

Local Lockdowns

The imposition of local lockdowns

finds us at a crossroads.

Patience is tested at the red light.

Anger wants to slam on the accelerator

but perseverance persuades him to wait.

Meanwhile, compliance follows the diversion signs

along country lanes full of potholes. Still

at least the scenic route

is a welcome distraction

from the additional miles driven

to avoid a collision

and keep the ambulance static

at the side of the road.

Blog at

Up ↑