The first time we saw a fire
We were astonished
The crackle
The hiss
The colour
The strangeness of it
…But then we discovered
HEAT!

Simple
Yet complex
An exercise
In elegance
A stairway
That unfolds organically
A stairwell that seems
To gently enfold you
As you take each step

Gondolas
The Grand Canal
Elegant alleys
To lose yourself in
But not for long
Buildings that cluster
And hang over the water
Doorways
That can only be reached by boat
This can only be
Venice

To raise money for charity
We entered a run
We aren’t very fit
But thought it quite fun
And boy were we right
It was a laugh all the way
And we made loads of friends
In the course of the day
Why such a blast?
I’ll tell you, because
All of us had to go dressed
Up as a Santa Claus!

I’m waiting for Christmas,
And it isn’t much fun!
I’m told by my mother
There’s loads of things to be done!
Like helping her forage
For holly, ivy and yew,
And decorating the house
With more than just glitter and glue.

I’m waiting for Christmas,
And I’m like a coiled spring!
I want to turn cartwheels,
To dance and to sing!
This is a holiday
Made for the young,
When candles are lit
And door wreaths are hung.

I’m waiting for Christmas,
And it’s as tiresome as math,
Which has always turned me
Into a real psychopath!
I want to sing carols,
I want to run riot,
And live for a week
On a rum butter diet!

I’m waiting for Christmas,
And trimming the tree,
I want to sneak just a sip
Of my dad’s best Chablis!
I’m waiting for Christmas,
And presents galore,
Oh, say it’s tomorrow,
Don’t be a bore!

I know that this is an enormous great toque*,
And it makes me look just a trifle baroque,
But I feel one must always just play the part,
If you want to do something with passion and heart.
Yes, I’m a pastry chef extraordinaire,
Scattering flour most everywhere,
This might resemble a rolling pin,
But it doubles as my teething ring!
* toque = chef’s hat

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A foggy day
Like a blank canvas
Almost bare branches
With the odd leaf
Clinging tenaciously
And me
Observing

We are slaves
To the shopping trolley
Maybe that’s why
It has a mind of its own
We are prisoners of the barcode
Which is incomprehensible
And sheds little light on the matter
We are held captive
By our desire to own
To belong
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A clear blue day
And the sunshine
Full on
Burnishing
What leaves remain
On the tree
With liquid gold
Like a halo
A sunburst
Of joy.
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This splendid world of indigo,
Is backlit by a burnished glow,
That burns like gold across the snow.

These colours nourish heart and soul,
They make a complimentary whole,
They edify, excite, console.

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