Nature’s Gift

I am so honoured to have my poem paired with an enchanting, evocative image in Earth Pathways 2023 calendar! I love the calendar and weekly planner, each year benefitting from their gifts of nature’s beauty and wisdom in image and words.

The beautiful, nature-connected Earth Pathways 2023 calendar and diary are now available from my online bookshop.

Simple Deep Joys

My mother has recently come back home from hospital. As she slowly regains her strength I too regain my lightness of spirit, in simple (or are they?) joys.

A quiet cup of tea

outside on a wooden bench

as birds sing up the sun,

others sleeping,

warm-nested in bed.

A butterfly dancing,

black and orange wings

fluttering fantastically,

unafraid it hovers

and settles on a nearby

bright purple flower.

The tentative form of

my now-skinny mum,

fledgling steps in the kitchen,

she directs the making of lasagne,

my heart bursting with joy

as her hands grasp a dish,


then lift it surely

and place it on a table-

the chef awakening.

For Guest Poet Arwen – Rest in Peace

A friend who allowed me to post his sensitive and insightful poems on this blog has just passed away. He was secretive about his poems, and I felt honoured that he let me feature his work. He felt supported by all the ‘likes’ so thanks to anyone who did so. Scarf and Plant Empath are two of my favourites.

This is what I have written in the wake of his passing.

Rest in Peace, Lee/Arwen, beautiful being may your journey be blessed.

My Mother’s Hair

My mother’s hair

is silk-soft,

she breathes

a deer breath

and surrenders

to my hands.

Long ago

she washed me,

her sure fingers

combing through

my hair.

Now I pray

her wounded heart

finds solace

in my touch.

She tires quickly

and I wrap her warm.

Her dark eyes

thank me,

she is too tired

for words,

but it is I

who is grateful

to feel my mom’s

silk-soft wisps

through my fingers,

to thank her

for my life.

Everyday Om

The television is going loud.

Kitchen lights buzz, bright as comets,

light-bees in my head.

I’m washing dishes to find calm and peace,

my friend-element water

clearing and caressing.


I’m longing for willow trees

when I hear a low sound

like Tibetan monks chanting


It goes on and on.

Amazed, I seek out the source,

then almost laugh.

The dishwasher is rumbling on,

sending a seed syllable into my bones.

Thank you, I think, for this gift.

Om is everywhere.


What if we breathed

as if the air

were sacred?

Each breath would be

a gift,

a kiss of precious life.

What if we danced

as if the earth

were sacred?

Each beat of her bones

would teach our hearts

what it means

to be loved.

What if we spoke

as if words

were sacred?

We would not waste them.

They would be blessings.

What could I say to you then, but



The sun blazed high.

I looked to his power

for direction

and was blinded,

scorched until he danced,

a colourful myriad of inspirations,

even further from my reach,

into the sea.

I sat in the cool, soothing air,

listening to owls

telling their stories.

Night jasmine curled around gates

like children’s crowns woven

with white, fragile stars.

A hare leapt across a starlit field,

its tail bobbing like a tiny moon.

The gentle, round face of night’s queen,

simple, white and immense,

rose in the East.

Her light touched me

and did not burn.

I found my direction


under a bliss of stars,

dance moonwards.