Gardener, cook, poet and novelist.
The crashing of the water on the rocks Reverberated out – a constant roar, My fingers twined themselves within her locks She kissed me as we lay upon the shore.
By Martin Fraser3 years ago in Poets
Refuse to be stored in black plastic sacks And placed in the containers provided. Fight, fight when bigoted intolerance attacks!
I can close my eyes and see things if I stare hard enough at the backs of my eyelids - faint smudges of electric blue form into the shape of the window,
There's a river by the meadow in the valley on the trail And we stopped and smelt the rain there as it fell upon the dale