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Spring in the air

I popped out for milk this morning, just as the sun was coming over the chimneypots. And a lovely morning it was too, nippy definitely but with a hint of spring in the air, our feathered friends in fine voice and the first snowdrops out.  Drawing deeply on the fresh estuary air, I thought the following two poems from my collection Twin Dakotas: poetry and prose might be nice ones to post today.  Hope you like them.




Nice morning, soft blue,

cheeky beaks at my window;

the sparrows are back.


Chirpy scallywags

gossiping in the laurel;

quick wings beat the air.


Nice morning, soft blue,

I feel like a boy again.

Aye, the sparrows are back.


Paul Beech






Tangled toads at water’s edge

male mallards vie for a female –

a girl and her granny laugh.


Paul Beech




Copyright © Paul Beech 2017

Twin Dakotas: poetry and prose published by Cestrian Press, 2016

‘Scallywags’ first published in Reflections, Issue 96


On Remembrance Sunday last November, as in 2015, Maureen and I stood to attention during the two-minute silence, before candle-lit photographs of our dear brave dads, both of whom served in the Second World War, hers in the Army, mine the RAF. Both thankfully survived but are no longer with us now.  We concluded our private ceremony as before, with proud salutes.

Of course we remembered all those wonderful men and women we owe so much to. One woman in particular came into my mind, the following haibun resulting…


The thump of the big gun rolls away, the two-minute silence begun. Just a gull or two calling distantly.  And there she is, waiting in memory: a woman never quite met, face never quite glimpsed, only her withered, liver-spotted hand, like a claw.  I never knew her name but thought of her as Ruby.  I knew only this: that she was one of those brave British agents dropped into occupied France to work with the Marquis in the run-up to D-Day.  Her room in the nursing home was always dark, door ajar, music most sombre on low.  Occasionally I’d hear her cough.  The big gun sounds again: it’s over.

between bugle calls

they live again

our lads, our girls

Paul Beech

Copyright © Paul Beech 2017

The Old Majolica Bowl

Here’s another poem from my debut collection Twin Dakotas: poetry and prose, published by Cestrian Press last August. The poem subsequently appeared, along with six of my others, in Unheard, our Chester Poets anthology 2016, also from Cestrian Press, the central theme of which was dispossession, alienation and homelessness.

The poem is about an orphaned refugee girl, and I tell her story as if to one of my younger granddaughters…




She’s just a little girl, my love.

She cannot speak nor even cry,

so terrible have been

the things she’s seen

in her faraway ravaged land,

the land she has fled in fear.

But she’s just a little girl like you.


No mummy, daddy or granny anymore

because of the war,

she lives in a muddy camp across the Channel.


All she has left is an old Italian bowl,

the gloriously coloured majolica bowl

that always stood in a shaft of light,

lemons, limes and apples piled bright.

It’s a miracle it wasn’t destroyed by the bomb.

Pity anyone who’d steal it now

for this little girl can be fierce.


She paints like you, my love,

but uses more red than blue,

much more red than you.

She cannot speak but paints in red.


In her cold camp bed

she clutches her bowl,

the old majolica fruit bowl.

Miracles do happen,

and cross the Channel she will someday

to a happy life in our country.

Kind people to care for her

and a little girl who will be her friend,

a friend who’ll help her find her voice again.

So she believes.


A little girl like you, my love.


Paul Beech


Copyright (c) Paul Beech 2017


The Pole

Happy New Year, everyone!

One highlight of the day for Maureen and I was watching The Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra with conductor Gustavo Dudamel live on BBC2, 11:15am – 12:45pm. What a fantastic concert!  We were blown away.

But earlier, beneath the twinkling lights of our wee Christmas tree, I flipped open a copy of Twin Dakotas: poetry and prose, my debut collection published by Cestrian Press last year, and re-read a short poem that rather tugged my heartstrings. Here it is…




I could do it,


I could walk along the pole,

the old telegraph pole

that lay on the ground.


Arms wide for balance,

one foot gingerly placed

in front of the other,

grandchildren following,


I could walk along the pole,

the old telegraph pole on the ground.


Half-covered in moss

and fallen leaf,

the pole is rotten now,

yet still I glimpse

their nimble spirits



Paul Beech


My very best to you all for 2017.


Copyright © Paul Beech 2017


RIP Cynthia Jobin

I was much saddened to learn that Cynthia Jobin, the American poet, passed away on 13th December 2016.  Regular readers of this blog will know that Cynthia often commented on my posts here in a most thoughtful and supportive way.

I was an avid follower of her own brilliant blog, “littleoldladywho”, and posted my final comment early this morning. Here it is:


Sitting quietly with the sun not yet risen, I think of Cynthia, whose poetry and friendship have meant so much to me since discovering her blog two-and-a-half years ago.

With her wide vocabulary and mastery of form, her humanity, humour and skill in painting pictures in the mind, Cynthia was a most amazing and versatile poet. Her finely-wrought work was not only entertaining but deeply moving and thought-provoking too, playful and profound by turns, even sometimes inviting contemplation of the great mysteries.

We have to be thankful for the beautiful poetry Cynthia left behind for us to treasure; thankful for her friendship too, the warm, lively friendship she showed towards each of us individually who made up her online community. Our world is surely the richer because of her.

In quiet moments like this, when I might have been responding to her latest poem or replying to one of her wonderful comments on my own blog, I will remember “littleoldladywho”.

My sincere condolences to her family.

Paul Beech


Copyright © Paul Beech 2016

Wee Poems from a Lost Trail

Trawling through my files this morning I came across a couple of wee poems written for a poetry trail that didn’t happen in the end. The proposed trail was for an autumn festival at an historic country home in Wales and the brief was to write family-friendly four-line poems relevant to the venue.  I would have enjoyed writing more but it wasn’t to be on this occasion.  Oh well, I thought I’d give my poems an airing anyway, my wee poems from the lost trail…




Beyond the Great Hall he hovers,

broad wings, spread tail, cat-like mew.

A small movement in the bracken below.

Now he drops like a stone.





Under a full moon

the coachman reins in at the Great Hall

and a proud figure alights.

The Squire is safely home again.




Happy Christmas, everyone!




Copyright © Paul Beech 2016


Maureen and I recently enjoyed our Chester Poets Christmas bash at a canalside pub in Chester called The Lock Keeper. After the meal we sat in a circle and took turns to read poems, which Kemal Houghton (our Chairman) recorded for broadcast on Vintage Radio’s Poetry Roundup programme over the Christmas weekend – he’s the presenter.  The show will air on the internet ( on Christmas Eve 7-8pm and Christmas Day 10–11am, if you fancy tuning in.

My set included the triolet below written following a brother’s winter visit some years ago. The steeple in question belonged to St John the Evangelist’s Church in Winsford, Cheshire.

Hope you’re all well on with your festive preparations and looking forward to the big day. Maureen and I are having an especially busy time of it as we’re in the throes of moving from our wee flat in Shotton to a retirement bungalow a mile up the Dee Estuary from here, in Connah’s Quay, and aiming to enjoy our Christmas dinner there, beneath a well decorated tree with twinkling lights.

Very best wishes to you all.




Landmark, lifemark, the steeple of St John’s.

Pausing, we hear the bells faintly in snow.

Down the chill river, destiny beckons.

Landmark, lifemark, the steeple of St John’s.

Pals all our lives, we’re the lucky ones,

Tramping the valley top, me and my Bro.

Landmark, lifemark, the steeple of St John’s.

Pausing, we hear the bells faintly in snow…


Paul Beech


Copyright © Paul Beech 2016