I have always loved writing poetry - a poem I wrote as a child has been included in a Macmillan Christmas anthology, and I published poems before I started writing stories. My poems have appeared in anthologies for publishers including Bloomsbury, Candlestick Press, Macmillan, Scholastic, Collins Children's Books, Oxford University Press, Otter-Barry Books and A&C Black. 

I have also written poems for Pearson educational publishers.

My mini eBooks One Week of Christmas Poems, One Week of Dinosaur Poems, One week of Nature Poems, One Week of Space Poems,  One Week of Football Poems, One Week of Spooky Poems, One Week of Seaside Poems, One Week of Pirate Poems, One Week of Puzzle Poems and One Week of History Poems are available on Amazon Kindle. The first six books in the series are also gathered together in the One Week of Poems Omnibus.

Here are a couple of poems. I'll change them every now and then so come back to see what's new.

A WONDERFUL WEEK

On Monday I'm sure I heard a dragon,
Giving a mighty roar.
Teacher said it was just the pipes,
Rumbling under the floor.

On Tuesday I’m sure I saw a witch,
Swooping across the sky.
Teacher said it was just a scrap
Of dark cloud, drifting by.

On Wednesday I’m sure I whiffed a wizard,
Cooking up a spell.
Teacher said it was just the lunchtime
Stew that I could smell.

On Thursday I’m sure I saw a ghost,
Up on the bell-tower roof.
Teacher said it was just a pigeon,
Fluttering home to roost.

On Friday I sat and thought for a bit.
Teacher is probably right,
But school isn’t going to be half such fun,
With nothing to give me a fright.

THE SEVEN AGES OF A LEAF

First the bud, close hugged,
Curled against the cold,
Waiting for sun’s signal.
 
Then the newborn leaf,
Wrinkled, pale and fragile,
Freshly unfurling.
 
Then the growing leaf,
Full-veined, drinking deep,
Stretching, swelling, reaching.
 
Then the sun-baked leaf,
Spread wide, feeding upon light,
Working to store food for seed-making.
 
Then the celebration,
Garlanded in red and gold,
Richly signalling a job well done.
 
Sixth, the fading leaf,
Withered and wrinkled,
Drifting down towards the waiting earth.
 
And then the seventh age,
Weakened and worm-eaten,
Journeying through the earth and roots and shoots
 
To reach the bud, close hugged,
Curled against the cold,
Waiting for sun’s signal.