You can smell the brown, red earth
when you dig it over with a spade.
It fills the senses with nutrients,
clay and a hint of rain.
It’s life-giving, workable and full of display;
this mud wants seeds and bulbs to paint a landscape.

The land is everywhere we walk;
the trees huddle together like crowded folk;
the hills and the valleys have no spoke;
the ground holds the secrets to all ancient woke.

The patch of grass on the back of the house cries out for boarders,
daffodils and a pond that croaks.
Vegetable patches grow inside the dreamy mind,
which will be packed with rainbow colours in the summertime.

The earth is magic;
the earth is fine;
can you see the life it creates
through the eye of your kind?


Trickle, tipple, splash and drip;
the warm, wet sensation on your skin feels divine within.

Twisting the chrome tap unleashes a riot –
a bath to be filled for an hour of quiet.

A watering can is filled to the top;
it’s heavy to lift before it feeds the vegetable plot.

The thundering waterfall inside the lush glen
can be heard through the wood near the bridge in a den.

Trickle, tipple, splash and drip;
the cold, wet sensation on your skin feels brutal within.

A predicted storm is heavy and hard;
the water on your face is feeling sharp.

The river moves like it’s in a race
with oxygen and hydrogen fighting for a place.

Water freezes and turns into ice;
if you tread on it wearing boots,
the ice will snap into your eyes.

Trickle, tipple, splash and drip;
water is everywhere and keeps us alive.


If we’re lucky, snow falls on a winter’s day,
asking all the children to come out and play.

There’s snowball fights, igloos, wonderous snowmen who smile,
but the fingers get cold –
the longer you stay outside.

If the snowflakes are big and fall really slow,
it’s like watching a wonderful magic show.

If the snow falls fast and sets in a blast,
“I’m sorry,” a mum shouts at the kids,
but you’ll have to wait
until the blizzard dries.

There’s a majestic crunch when you walk in the snow;
it’s addictive,
therapeutic and starts with a “GO!”

If you open a window, all the screams can be heard,
from the sledging and the children whizzing past on the roads.

There’s something beautiful about a snowy morning;
opening the curtains
reveals a scene
where the trees look still,
and the grass can’t be seen.

The snowman melts,
and the ice disappears
until the next snow time –
I await your return.

Into The Wind

Rolling over to you from a place of no consistency.
Emerging into all places from what seems like no existence;
persistence, resistance, a powerful delinquent.

Filling any room with the fabrication of breath,
taken for granted by life and dusty shelves.

An energy-filled with movement,
fulfilling this delusion of a mathematical conclusion
that shows us confusion
of a simple energy system
designed for an infinite time
while we sip our glass of poison –
falling into a hole of distortion.

Is the wind committing a crime?
A remembrance of what to do with this climb!

Merely suggesting that the point of breath is to feel;
warmth, cold or a simple breeze
that bounces from your ageing skin,
determined to keep life within.

Sign me up –
I want to come in.


There’s nothing more rewarding than a home-cooked meal.
The scent of roasted potatoes fills the air with new hope.
Entering the home with dirty shoes,
which are kicked off outside in the porchway to defuse.

The TV plays Sunday sport;
the kids play chess and tell some jokes;
the sofa feels cosy and proposes a stroke;
home-cooked dinners are worth a million quartz.

Dad shouts “READY”, and Mum bangs the oven door.
The clashing of the pots and pans
get thrown into the sink like a corps.
We wash our hands and fight for the towel.
The family arrives at the oak table –
with seats available without a label.
Everyone knows their mission;
I’m the first to crack open the red and white wine,
but only with permission.

The TV plays Sunday sport;
the kids play chess and tell some jokes;
the sofa feels cosy and proposes a stroke;
home-cooked dinners are worth a million quartz.

Bittersweet carrots, peas and broccoli,
complemented by cracking Yorkshire pudds.
Gravy spills over the crispy potatoes
that snap under the weight of the silver knife.
Conversation leads to laughter,
little whispers and stubborn concern,
but is Sunday, cosy and the feeling of home;
everything seems effortless as we tap on the phones.

The TV plays Sunday sport;
the kids play chess and tell some jokes;
the sofa feels cosy and proposes a stroke;
home-cooked dinners are worth a million quartz.

Some fall asleep; a few go for a walk,
but I’m sitting back on the sofa
until my breath turns into a yawn.
Until next week, these moments will never grow old;
it’s the home-cooked meal
I look for when walking home towards my throne.

Days That Make Up The Week

When Monday comes, I roll my eyes to the back of my head,
5 days of working to pay the bills and pay for bread.

The chore of Tuesday is like working with no end,
the only way to get through it – is to simply just pretend.

Wednesday arrives as your friend
because it’s midweek and brings you closer to the end.

Thursday can be gritty with 4 days in
it’s easier to move forward rather than start again.

Friday feels exciting with one last easy push.
Everyone runs out the door with a gentle wave and a mush.

Saturday is a wondrous joy
and simply can’t be missed
as someone lights the barbeque
and we all get really pissed.

The last day off is Sunday
which starts off really well,
but by ten o’clock in the evening,
it turns back into hell.

You can only set the alarm clock
for Monday and wish
you had more time to sell.


Soft, are these droplets saturating my face
while distorting the grey view.
All seems quiet in the morning cold fog,
but it’s something we have to walk through.
The spider webs on the green bush
show their architectural structure
as droplets form to look agitated.
Traffic passes through the village
with serious fog lights on.
Their scream is silent
as they tell you to get out the way.
The Sun breaks through a heavy, black curtain,
but only for a second, like a surprise.
Chattering children await at the school gates;
parents hide through scarfs and woolly hats.
I like the fog;
I love the obscurity;
I enjoy walking past the river
where no one can see me.
hydronated breath.
The fog disappears
with the late morning – drying her tears.

The Meaning Behind The Poems

I put these poems together for a book I’m creating called ‘Odyssey 2211 – Space Poems. It’s still in draft and needs plenty of work, and who knows? I might even change the book title. Writing about journeys across the universe; reminded me of home, this beautiful round, blue and green rock that hurtles around our galaxy. The poems are for future explorers with space warp engines that can travel across the galaxy and hopefully explore new worlds. I can expect them (space travellers) to feel lost, lonely, scared and fragile at times. However, they can reach for this book and start reading the section on ‘Earth Poems’, which will transcend them back to Earth and remind them of all the moments that await their return.

Each Earth poem was written to remind the reader of the things we take for granted; we see every day and feel human emotions for. Enjoy subjects on family, seasons, water and earth, which have all been combined to tell a story and scar your mind with an imprint of home.

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