Peace Angel

You ripple
soft blue
black wings

a manta ray
curling under
clear salty

I feel the thin
wake of your

bringing beauty
to the cry
of my pinched

I want to follow
the curve
of your wings

that great glide
deep through


I keep your
shadow light
in view
as I dive

the wake
of my heart

I descend
in search
of your silent


This Moon and Bone

I know this bone
a white handhold
lost in
a black, tar sea.

The full moon
swims against
the night water-
I curl my fingers
through it
and it breaks.

I put my hand
around the moon-
the whole one that
swims against
the sky
its smooth, orb
weight – a pebble
in my palm.

I don’t dare
touch the bone-
the bone so close
I can smell it.

If I curled
my hand
around its
death white

would it break
apart or
would I?

Thread of Life

I saw the thread,
the pouring liquid
of life

through rivers
through the veins
of stars
and white
mountain peaks.

All spoke this song.

The gold fire
of the sun
touches the face
of the moon
and turns milky
before touching
my own face.

The veins of a stone
in my veins.

This same song
this rolling thread-

my heart beats with
the stone song
with river-blood
with sky vastness
and with the
changing brightness
of the sun.

I saw this thread
and lost my own face,
no longer apart from
the world.

Wild Garlic

she carries wildflowers
and wild garlic
stains her sleeve.

She is not
from the city

I stare
at the white blossoms
caught in her hair.

My shoes
on the pavement
her hair blows wild.

Songbirds chitter,
pip, squeak
in the bordering trees

in a startling thunder
of wings
they fly.

Her laugh
takes to the sky.

She, an earthed breeze
in a close London square.

I stare
at white blossoms
caught in her hair.

Buffalo and Wolf

The buffalo
the wolves

says Man

but we do not

the hoofbeats
of the past

which beat again
in red hearts.

We only listen

to the rivers cry
for salmon

we only listen

to the cry
in our blood.

The pounding of bear
the forest of
our dreams
as great paws run
through them.

We only listen

as the buffalo hoof
presses into the mud

and the wolf-heart
at the
white and ancient

Cloak of Stars

Put on your
cloak of stars
and walk among
the rich
and poor
of heart.

Walk among
the tender flowers
until your feet 
smell of lavender
and roses.

Let the breath
of the summer wind
catch the whispers
in your heart
and carry them to
be spoken by
the trees.

Bring the flowerless
the scent of flowers.

Among the starless
be a moon.

The Amber Giant

Hello readers,

I normally post poems on this site.  But I do want to let you know about my latest published book for middle-grade readers (9-12 year olds).

Caroline, our 11 year old heroine, journeys high in the Himalayas to wake a sleeping giant.  She imagines he’ll be kind and friendly.  But if he is a good giant, why was he given a sleeping spell in the first place?

Screen shot 2017-04-30 at 11.07.21

Find the book on the Handersen Publishing website:

or Amazon!

Best wishes,