Posted in Love


The pages squeezed between wake up and work,
turned curtly
impatient to leap from sport to share prices
dismissing columns never read,
when attention ran a red light.
‘Margaret… peacefully… dearly loved wife…. mother of…’
2 cm by 2 cm of ancestry and descendants
biography as condensed novel.

Margaret, only ever one word, official title : secretary to the Director.
PA yet to be invented, or computers.
The unhurried, unjudging nucleus
around which the workplace orbited.
Correcting grammar, booking flights
taking up collections, buying farewell gifts
reforming demand into request
and always knowing, who, where and when.

The appeal was rejected – the plank must be walked,
sign here.
The big O
Outkicked – the door,
most acted as if contagious – they might become infected
Margaret said if I needed an application typed ….

A well – manicured hand held the page
she knew liberty had been taken
and it was my decision
“ I think it reads better –
more what they’re looking for.”



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.