#NaPoWriMo2026 #Day10 #ForThemButNotForMe #GriefPoem

 

For them, but not for me

I watched them run the length of the rec,
they streak ahead like hares in spring.
My body, slower now, keeps its own company
a gentler wind, a narrowing compass.

What is this grief?
A gate I didn’t notice until it closed,
a map redrawn without consulting me.
The ache of falling behind
a soft-spoken tutor in letting go.

I learn to walk the edges instead,
to see them off, then greet them at the end.
Legacy is a kind of quiet cartography,
tracing routes for them, but not for me.

And when they sprint beyond my sight,
I feel the tug of something tender:
they carry skills like pocket talismans,
small and steady as a stone warmed by the sun.

#NaPoWriMo2026 #Day9 #FishOutOfWater #AnimalPoem

 

                                                                     Fish Out of Water

 

I.

 

Cut from chalk

a hollow made by men whose names

were entered twice:

first as workers,

then as losses. The pond holds

their subtraction

ledger-water,

its surface calm as if calm

were ever earned.

 

II.

 

Into this receptacle 

this accidental reliquary drops

a goldfish: bright

detritus,

a domestic ember misplaced by

a reckless hand.

Its restless mouth

unthreads the silt, undoing nests

with innocent force.

 

III.

 

The reeds lean back

startled by the orange insistence

of this uninvited guest,

this glimmer

that does not know it wreaks havoc

by simply being.

Beauty, here,

is a kind of vandalism:

a flare in the wrong dark.

 

#NaPoWriMo2026 #Day8 #RepeatedPhraseThatContradicts #ButI'mNoConservationist

But I’m no conservationist.

I say it like a disclaimer,

that it’s not my training,

like I’m a stick of rock

that in my middle says “Yoof Worker”.

But I’m no conservationist.

The choughs circling the cliffs

seem to have missed the memo.

Dovorian’s young and old name me:

pom-pom maker,

shield matron, with a key to colours and beasts

Chough Lady.

But I’m no conservationist.

Even as I’m out there again,

tramping the world's blue seams,

knowing rivers that giggle,

lakes placidly hush,

oceans dream slowly,

ponds hold the moon like a secret.

Anything wet, really,

anything bigger than a puddle,

and suddenly I’m ankle-deep in devotion.

But I’m no conservationist.

I keep tasting the world,

believing every day’s a school day:

the salt on my lips,

the moss-green hush of a bank,

watching the sky for familiar feathers

chough wings brushing

the edges of my noticing.

I’m cataloguing textures with my fingertips,

listening to the soft grammar of leaves,

letting the wind rewrite me.

But I’m no conservationist.

I insist, while organising communities

like someone gathering fallen twigs

to build a fire worth standing around.

My knowledge bank grows feral,

sprouting facts and stories

like seedlings that refuse to stay in their pots.

People keep handing me questions

if I don’t know the answers,

I help plant them in other fertile soil.

But I’m no conservationist.

I repeat, as if repetition could make it true

as if the choughs weren’t circling overhead,

as if my boots weren’t already muddy,

as if my heart weren’t quietly

rewilding itself, every time I step outside.

#NaPoWriMo2026 #Day7 #SkippingRyhme #WeAreOnALittlePlanet

We are on a little planet,

cracking at the seams.

You were chasing profits,

we are chasing dreams.

Storms are getting wilder now,

rivers start to flood

how many grown‑ups will step up

before we’re done for good?

One, two, three…

#NaPoWriMo2026 #Day6 #TheWildBoarWhoThinks #DislikingSomething #OnlyInADream

 

 

The Wild Boar Who Thinks I’m Being Mugged Off

I.

I’m just heading out, keys in one hand, dignity in the other,

when a boar lumbers out from behind a hedge,

snorting like he’s late for a family argument.

“All right, sweetheart,” he says,

“you look like you’ve been fightin’ a filing cabinet in your sleep.

What’s the world thrown at ya now?” 

II. 

I tell him about the databases,

the unholy trinity of data collection,

enthusiastic smiles and nods, hopes pinned

on this ouroboric tool not eating its own tail.

The boar snorts so hard a leaf does a backflip.

“If you had tusks like mine,” he says,

“you could skewer the whole circus.”

He coughs and gives a slight attitude adjustment -

“but gentle-like."

III.

We wander on,

me and this tusky patron saint of the overwhelmed,

in a taxied chariot zooming from home,

down the motorway,

past Samphire Hoe;

soon the White Cliffs and castle come into view.

“Reasonable adjustments, my hoof,” he mutters.

“They tell ya they’ll sort things,

but it’s always you doing the heavy lifting.

No wonder you’re buyin’ your own safety devices -

stop goin’ cap in hand, 

to people who measure your worth against a budget sheet.”

IV.

As I exit, he stamps a hoof,

tusks gleaming like two very sharp opinions.

“Listen, darlin’,” he says,

“you deserve better than endless loops

and instructions written by desk goblins.

You’re allowed to protect yourself.

You’re allowed to rest.

You’re allowed to fantasise about gently, metaphorically

hoisting the whole stack of nonsense onto my tusks

and launchin’ it into the nearest passing cloud.”

V.

He tells me to give his respects to the chough.

He gives me a look that’s half feral, half fond.

“Go on then,” he says. “Be brave.

And if life throws more nonsense at ya today,

just imagine me behind you,

snortin’ like a steam train,

toofy tusks polished, ready to defend you

in the most dream-only, paperwork-free way possible.”

I thank him and, under my breath, acknowledge

he really is worth the hassle.

#NaPoWriMo2026 #Day5 #MinorInconveniences #DislikingSomething

Minor Inconveniences 

Methinks I loathe the word methinks.

It juggles into sentences like a smug little jester.

Tinfoil is my shining rival,

its metallic crinkling setting my teeth on edge.

“We buy any car” - a jingle, trolling

like a parasitic earworm.

A plastic-wrapped coconut,

as if its husk wasn’t armour enough.

Grammar pedants, holding the line of language,

not grasping their privilege.

Here I stand, besieged by trifles 

a sovereign of minor inconveniences

#NaPoWriMo2026 #Day4 #InLikeALion #WeatherPhenomenon

 

In like a lion

Most mornings start with Baris at my door, we talk about the weather, then talk some more. A community organiser and a Turkish cab driver - we’re birds of a feather, both natural strivers.

The sun on the journey feels hopeful and bright, but sleet at the barn sends tots inside. March comes in like a lion, goes out like a lamb - the barn in between is a cheerful Bedlam.

By pickup, the sunshine has settled again; Baris just smiles, says it’s much better than rain. Strange how the weather can stitch us together - two different lives, held lightly by weather.