Granda’s Shed

Granda's Shed


when Granda comes out of the shed you know

the days he’s been up to mischief, his silk

cravat off centre, knot slipped to the left.


he needs three or four steps to steady his

door filling frame. then he locks you with those

wide blue eyes, puts his finger to his mouth


and whispers, “don’t tell your nan.” the cravat, he

told me, reminds him to enjoy the light

on days he is not on his hands and knees


being swallowed by the earth. his balance

regained, he pats my head with hands which have

“knocked a few blocks off”, chuntering aloud,


“the mine will never get you my boy”


“the mine will never get you.”


© Davy D 2017





He loved how the wind dragged the balloon seller down the High Street, running alongside getting lost in his bubbling rainbow.

He wanted pink – always pink. Pink was for girls. He got blue. On birthdays, Action Man green.

He marched with his green balloon along Parade Street. A special boy on a special day. He couldn’t see any other boys with green balloons.

He cut a sad figure as he waved goodbye and his balloon melded into blue sky. He thought he was the strongest boy in the world. The wind was stronger.

He cried 47 tears.

He turned and caught his reflection in Marks and Spencer’s window. Forty years on, the balloon seller and the child were gone.

He knew it was time to let go.

© Davy D 2017

A Fear of Flying

A Fear of Flying

First Violin

First Violin

it was a thing of beauty.
your face a picture, as you
opened the case and saw it
for the first time
laid in red silk, fairy lights reflecting
on polished maple, resin overpowering pine.

we laughed as you battled
with the chinrest, trying to
breathe new life
into aged strings.

we cried at your early renditions
of “cat dragged across a blackboard.”

you persevered.

Sunday mornings
became the Royal Festival Hall.
Mutter, Neveu, Handel
graffiti on your bedroom wall.
until youth’s folly led you away,
the violin put to rest again.

sometimes i still sneak
into your cupboard
opening the case, listening
to the songs you left behind –
amongst disturbed dust.

© Davy D 2017



a child’s eye gazes
into a vast Universe
wondering what lay beyond.

between stars
thoughts of eternity
and a churning stomach
repel sleep.

mortality sows its seed,
still seeming far away.

in time’s blink
it returns to the doorstep,
reminding of now
and life’s remaining flavour.

with moments left,
the child dives
back into darkness
searching, for remnants
of a last hope.

© Davy D 2017

Haiku in Winter


Picture Credit: Carsten Huels

How did that happen?

It only seemed a moment ago, when I was walking through decaying leaves and pondering the poetic joys of Autumn when Winter arrives.

Here in the UK we have had a colder start to Winter than in past years. Temperatures have reached minus 9 degrees centigrade, in some areas, and snow has fallen in the North of England. It looks like a cold one and I’m happy, as I can hibernate in the poetry den for three months and get ahead with the poetry and writing.

Winter has provided the inspiration for many poets and poems and haiku is a genre of poetry where the theme of Winter is prominent. I have been reading a lot of haiku recently and there are perfect examples of haiku both, traditional and modern, inspired by the winter months.

Three of the masters of the haiku tradition Bashō, Buson and Issa all took inspiration from Winter and reading their work takes you to the heart and moment of the season. This haiku by Bashō (translated by Robert Hass) provides a perfect example.

Winter solitude-
in a world of one colour
the sound of wind.

From a more modern perspective Ruth Yarrow’s haiku captures the childhood joy that



Written for November Notes, hosted by Rosema at A Reading Writer and Sarah at Heartstring Eulogies.

Day 28 Music Prompt: Look After You by The Fray.




Written for November Notes hosted by Rosema at A Reading Writer and Sarah at Heartstring Eulogies.

Day 21 Music Prompt: Recreational by Aaron Krause.




For the Word-High July Prompts of Filipino Words hosted by A Reading Writer.

Yugto – (n.) A fundamental transition or development of a story or phenomenon.