Thank you all 101 of you! I am very chuffed to have you enjoying my work and I send you all my best and kindest regards. I am honoured.

XX Veronica


Frozen April

Frozen April

Etiolated sappy leaves flop beneath a hard frost
The temperament of the blue woods is like a woman
Without a man she loves; gone overseas without a letter

In the fields the confused birds take straws to build nests
Abandoning them to swiping winds and icestorms
The moon closes her eyes and dreams of a white unstained bed
Change is tiny painful cracks on stone
Flowers shudder on pale stalks
Wondering if they are mistaken
Rain soaked, bruised and blown.
Indirah packs a box of small baby clothes
As her sons lean back in cushioned  chairs
Blanking her and their vagrant sister

The mother listens to the child’s  ghost voice:
Was she seen under ice?
Eyes turned upward to the roiling clouds.


Veronica Aldous 2016 All rights reserved

Photograph of cyclamen Veronica Aldous


dovecote - Copy.jpg


Among the falling stones the sundews spike and lick the air
Vortices of engorged leaves and soft-sucking things
Fan shaped, rounded with fat pimpled pips, blue and glaucous
Fuzzy haired above the stream, popping like exploding lanterns
Balsam, wild mints and above it all a stand of geans.

In these remembered  lanes I wander up and down, imagine
Touching racemes and gray glazed stalks, the gentle constellations
Of dandelion clocks, the small blue veined wings of  speedwell
Pimpernel’s tiny scarlet eyes, sage and honeyed cones
Naming them one by one, a chant, a chanson, a canon
Of words for all blessed and tiny detailed broderies

Flowering in my mind these fragile footnotes beat messages
In naming each, long faded; ploughed over water meadows
New housing schemes and shopping malls
When such things were seen and tongued in ecstasy
Into the  mosses’ tiny flowering buds I whispered kisses
Like some crazed lover who scribes a tree’s bark with an arrowed heart –
The sullen silky name of each wild thing is now an incantation
My lost and well named bitters;
Ragged Robin
Pellitory of the wall.


Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved

The painting is Magic Dovecote by Veronica Aldous




It doesn’t know how it arrived, whether from chemicals
Charged by sunlight, choked words spouting from its inchoate mouth
A croak was the first example of  its voice, the spume of salt
Perhaps the simple crushing of jaws or breathy exhalation
Was there none other to hear the cry? Was it alone?
Nothing was heard before this, there being none to hear
Even then the rushy beds latent glimmerings
Such sodden green overhanging mossy tricklings
Were still deaf to such calls, they hung back waiting
Did inorganic beings disgorged the tiny particles?
As they smote rock on metallic  gaping cloaca
From  volcanic core ?
Its eyes bore multiples of stars, if eyes they were
And not dim  inchoate cracks in quartz.
It dripped in caves, it lay before it ever crawled
Flopped upon the sticky sediments from which it formed
Fish-seed, bird-seed raimented in solar flares
In sulphuric lakes whorled by lunar shifts
It came to be.

So suddenly alone,  did it feel its need,
Its singularity, its need to hide, to bite, to mate, to breed?
Or did it lie starving, burping  for another millennia
To churn up another less amorphous, less gasping
In weedy stirring pools of vibrant algae
Did this life fail because there was none other
To hear its call?

Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights reserved





Grown from spider’s wings and legs of ancient Manxmen
The wizened apple doll within its earthy silence
The masked knobbyknockers and freuds
Of linked and spiny museum curiosities
Enthrall the visitors that peer behind the plushy curtains
Inspecting vats of shimmering mermaid toes
Aeolian harps strung on dripping hawthorns
Unsilence of Einsteins, unflowering of blooms
Unpicking of Mallarmes and obstinate flickerings
In hushed seance rooms where dark ladies
Deal cards to  cardboard men for half a pfennig
Serving barbaric custards from enamelled spoons
This is the end of one nerve ending’s impulse
The final bifurcation of an inky scratch on vellum
A spectral thoughtrune tied to a running apis
Down corridors of damp flagstone, here’s the endgame –
My mind sings hollow fulminating tunes.


Veronica Adous 2016  All Rights Reserved