England, my England

When asked of home what answer should I give?

Of rooks and conkers round a village green;

or looping riverbanks where herons live;

or woodland walks in summer’s brightest sheen?

Or should I think instead of urban sprawl?

Of littered verges soiled by endless queues;

and gum-flecked towns where wailing sirens call;

and drinking binges fill the evening news?

The land I love is different yet again;

it’s found in pockets deep with charity;

compassion brims and will not entertain

a hoarding of our thin prosperity.

No postcard views nor wasteland blights begin

to find the heart of England: look within.


Just a few days after writing this came news of the tragic death of Claire Squires in the London Marathon. Since then The Samaritans, the charity she was raising funds for, have received over £600,000. I think the sestet of this poem says it all.

Five Marks of Mission

Epitome of humble service, found 
with towel and basin, squatting down the line; 
an upper room for now that’s holy ground, 
commemorated too in bread and wine. 
Corrupted trials and mocking purple cloak, 
the jibes descend to cruel malignity, 
til depths are plumbed in hammer, nails and yoke, 
though each is borne with royal dignity. 
Impaled upon that cross in searing pain, 
his shoulders bearing all our worldly vice, 
he pleads forgiveness that will wipe our stain 
and give us grace to enter paradise. 
Five wounds were wrapped within a winding sheet - 
the final marks of mission - now complete.