How To Let Go

I recite poems to my cat,

Eliot, Pound and Whitman.

I play him Brahms and Miles Davis

and talk about great art.

But my cat simply stares at me

through those dark blue eyes,

and stares and stares,

then gracefully begins to wash himself.

And I realise

that watching a cat washing itself

is a form of meditation.

After an hour

there’s no difference

between washing and watching.

No Fuss

I may pop by

just to say Hi

but I possibly won’t

so don’t


a special cake

or go online

to order wine.

A cup of tea

will do for me

as we two chat

and play with the cat.

Uncle Ron’s Will

I leave my cache of 20,000 toilet rolls to my niece Concha Platt.

I leave the 350 tins of sardines to my nephew Paul Trope.

The above assets are held in the Kunidion Business Park Self Storage Depot.

The remainder of my estate, financial and physical, is to be shared equally between the charities named in the appendix.

Faith & Charity

On a piece of waste ground

beside St Joseph’s Church

rough sleepers are roasting a pig,

bought with alms or stolen. Who knows?

They listen, heads bowed,

to the sound of fat falling into fire,

to the growling of their dogs,

to the church bell tolling

and the liturgy rolling across centuries.

Enjoy. Enjoy. Enjoy.

Relish your portion of roast meat

flavoured with incense

and the piety that flows from church doors.

Yes, the faithful have finished worship

and are leaving in peace to serve the Lord,

with tongues of fire above their heads

and handfuls of change to give away

to every poor soul who can face their holy heat.