Summer encapsulated

Photo by Marino Bobetic on Unsplash

They make a row, tattered petals arguing, vying
for room, trying always to face white-gold:
blessing, god to them.

Their seeded eyes never stray
from his gaze, moving
as he does, with the same pace

not like the swatches of red rag or the bells
turning the forest floor neon blue
or the yellow cups in springtime, all

too slow in their reactions, taking days
to present petals, curl stalks, describe
the search for light in a ballerina pose.

A thousand leonine heads, follow
the sun’s arc. To walk amongst them
is to feel their taut urgency, wallow
at equal height, inhale
their no-nonsense…

behold your creation (an acrostic golden shovel poem)

Photo by Lyman Gerona on Unsplash

F acsimile of life, am I? You did not hesitate or stop
U ncertain as you were of the outcome, did not prevent
N umbers encroaching, working in silence,
E volving as you once did, able to bring
R ationale, substance, logic to the world and let
A tangled network of wires, like scribbling
L ines fill domed heads with golden lustre; put

B efore priest and poet, prince and pauper — let
L oose, neither she nor he
U nloved, dismissed, my
E go stifled — inconsequential, servile — my
S elf submerged under a hand of flesh. …

our first car

Photo by Viktor Forgacs on Unsplash

Andiamo. It means, let’s go in Italian and it isn’t a word you’d normally hear drifting up the back street of a row of terraced houses in a small, Lancashire town. Brierfield is nestled between Nelson and Burnley and in the 1950s it was home to dozens of Italian families, ours among them.

My father worked in the pit at Hapton Valley and hot-tailed it there every morning on his bike — Brierfield to Hapton — a journey of about six miles, then a full day’s work and a cycle ride home again. He was lean and fit and…

not all friends are compadres

photo, from my own collection: my parents are at the front, left and right — and that’s me with the rabbit

Italian boys, fragile with eyes like olives, each had a floppy wrinkled finger protruding from under their vests. They came to the door with their parents — women with heavy features and crescent eyebrows, uncombed hair and unpretentious dresses; men with blue-toned jaws, skin the colour of sandpaper, breath like horse dung.

Visits to other Italians took a weekly turn. Cavallo stepped out through the backyard gate, the air sour with coal smoke, trails streaming against the rain. The girls each carried plastic umbrellas bought at the market yesterday.

The main road was Sunday silent. It had seemed overwhelming, this…

image purchased from

with a little business on the side

with apologies to Topol

Photo by Sina Saadatmand on Unsplash

If I had a flat rug


All day long I’d saunter up and down
If my rug was nice and flat


Wouldn’t have to stamp hard


Must admit I feel down in the dumps
Got to find a reason for these bumps

Hordes of roaches, bugs by the dozen
Running up and down beneath my feet
Chewing up the real wooden floors below

One long viper, here to my left
And one even longer to my right
And one more in the middle just for show


If I had a flat rug



Photo by Etienne Girardet on Unsplash

all languages fascinate me

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

I’ve missed my family

Laura Sheridan

I write to entertain, explain…and leave a tickle of laughter in your brain.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store