Live in Tuscany and love it, the winter is so much shorter than in Scotland! Have always enjoyed reading and writing since I was a child. My mother taught me to read at four, and I can remember the joy one evening when I discovered I could read entire sentences! Love dogs, good food and cooking for friends. Also going to museums and art exhibitions, used to work in a London art gallery many years ago. Really love travelling when possible. Not very often, alas, but have managed to get to India and Myanmar, after reading William Dalryple's books. Used to work as designer for our small family firm making women's clothes, but gave this up when everyone started outsourcing. Then recycled as English teacher working freelance, which funnily enough I enjoy. Many of the adults become long-term friends, and the teenage boys in particular are really amusing. Used to teach primary school kids and that was great fun too, although required a lot of energy.
The Boyfriend Oh my God, a poet! Was what they all said. Better off dead! Was what my father said. About your daily bread? Was what my mother said. What's he like in bed?Was what my friends said. He has an everlasting flow of dreams inside his head, was what I said. Mediterranean August. (Poem of the week in 2017) Hot curry scent of Helichrysum rosemary, myrtle and lavender. Flaunting scarlet bougainvillea darkly shadowed by umbrella pines. Colourful butterfly windsurf sails zigzagging across the turquoise bay watched through dark glasses. Small orange and cobalt fishing boats riding motionless on glittering flawless transparent emerald glass. Golden sunbaked body lies limp facing an opaque pewter sea hopefully waiting for an evening breeze. Setting out after crimson sunset expectant with engine chugging and fierce steel hooks cruelly baited. Rocking over depths under the moon bent on a mysterious treasure hunt. Hauling in strange writhing, wriggling shapes appearing from secret haunts below sliding, slithering, slipping, gasping conger, moray, scorpion and bass. Then some evening excitement sought with bronzed shoulders bared for display. Gaudycoloured iceclinking liquid in tall frosted glasses on little tables with dark admiring faces glancing. Fine scents of strange creatures cooking clinking plates and hunger satisfied. After, lying out under the stardome with the silent sweep of great owl wings and the softly crashing foamy breakers lulling us to sleep until first light.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
What's happened to Christmas? (13/12/2022)
A Mellow Yellow High (04/12/2022)
A Hopeful Tail (18/09/2022)
The Moroccan (14/08/2022)
In the deathwatches (06/07/2022)
An unexpected challenger (29/04/2022)
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