Our granddaughter was behind with her milestones. I kept telling myself not to worry and that Sophie would catch up, eventually. You can only lie to yourself for so long, though, and I began to think back to when my daughters were babies, remembering how they would stand on my lap, albeit rather shakily, with my hands around their waists to support them. This compulsion
I was extremely flattered when Rhys Madoc, son of the late actor, Philip Madoc, asked if he could reproduce my poem, Philip’s Funeral, in the Order of Service booklet at his father’s memorial. I was so inspired by the London/Welsh male-choir that day, I dedicated a poem to them: How to define a Welsh male-voice choir? Hewn from deep underground, the sound paints us a
Weathervanes turned, but life remained the same on that last day. The wind made promises it could not hope to keep and all seemed bleak on that last day. Sparrows dust bathed in rose beds, Red Kites reeled above gardens in an ordinary way on that last day. Wordsworth’s daffodils no longer danced for you, your voice no more would echo mine, or finish lines,
An open glade brings relief from dripping trees and tangled, coat-snatching brambles. Where a Speckled Wood flits, back-lit, spiralling skywards, then perching in a patch of dappled sun. Rising again, cream-spotted wings merge in and out slanting rays. In treetops the delicate defender intercepts an invasion of his honeydew heaven.
There is a theory that authors reveal their own true nature and desires within their fiction writing. I suppose it might be true, up to a point, but I think it’s more that we cherry pick ideas from life, be it our own or other peoples. Anyway, this theory can hardly apply to crime writers, can it? Would anyone have the guts to turn up