Sleeping grandchild

Always

these tiny pink-bloomed shells remind me

of you, your newborn finger nails;

and how, even in sleep,

your fragile fingers coil

round mine,

your baby scent and softness

fills my heart.

Storm

blue-grey sea

white waves crashing

grass, gorse and heather

rain on my window

blurring the image

Writers' Block

Sometimes,
like a dam slowing the flow of water,
worries flood the imagination,
stop the eager stream of words.

For days the muse has stranded me,
abandoned me,
left me blocked against a barrier
that I cannot push away.

Today I cease to struggle,
turn to flowers,
take five blooms bright as suns,
fill five shot glasses with water
let my imagination find expression
in a different way
    and find a smile.

The seven year old in me

kicks her way through puddles,
loves the way
each tiny splash creates a ring of ripples.

Wordsworth's favourite flower

Lesser celandine's bright bloom
is flowering early
rivalling the budding snowdrops.

Haiku - After rain

beads on a necklace
raindrops hang on every twig
glisten in the sun

Coal tit

He hit the window pane,

fluttered, twitched

   and then lay still.

I cupped him in my hands

warmed him, wished him well

   and watched him fly away.