Morning sunbeams

morning sunbeams
scattered rainbows
shimmering bright across our skin
golden yellows
vibrant crimsons
mix our palette and paint our sin



Grassy slopes

Our local park was always in my life. From primary school to teenage years to young adult to young mum. Town celebrations, playing in the swing park, finding dark corners to kiss, walking for miles to be with someone you love.

One of my abiding memories of that park is such a simple one. As a child, rolling down the grassy slopes up near the top path. Spinning down that hill, arms tucked in, fearless, smelling the crushed grass beneath me, sensing the summer sun’s warmth on the surface of the slope, falling in a heap at the bottom. Smiling faces of my friends as we scrambled up to climb and do it all again. Innocence of youth, not a care in the world.

How I wish life was so simple once again.

Cute Face


It was the ’70s.  They left in convoy on a Friday night. Ten, sometimes more, in a row.  One after another. Express coaches between London and Edinburgh.

I met him in one of the buses, on the way back home.  I had the window seat. He was in the aisle. Tall and lanky with gorgeous brown eyes and thick brown hair. He came from Middlesex and had a beard. Soft spoken. He was a photographer and showed me his portfolio.  Wonderful black and white images of the Thames shoreline. Beautiful character studies of people he had seen on his wanderings.

We shared a blanket.  We talked softly.  We shared kisses.  I took him home.  We wandered the Royal Mile next day and roamed the hillsides of Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh.  He had a gentle smile and a soft voice.  We parted friends.  I often wonder where he is now.

We had been strangers on the overnight bus.