Adorned by butterflies…

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Adorned by butterflies, she walked the cold gardens
Summer came and passed
No trace, no trace, no trace
A memory flew, blue butterflies
Cold gardens, you.

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2019

I have published 4 books of my work. They are available on Amazon. Moon Cinema, Mortal, Maja, Dollish.




I wish the windblown birds
Would come to me
Way-eep Way-eep Way-eep
Shh shh
That I could rock the earth to sleep
Way-eep Way-eep
And mend its broken wings
Shh shh.


Veronica Aldous All Rights Reserved 2019

Absence and Longing


The wind blew the dust of the orchids
Till they fell in tiny rain
Pocketed by the silvered banks
In vegetal greensleep

Ghost, Lady’s Slipper, Pyramidal
Helleborine, Creeping Lady’s-Tresses
Hear lost songs and murmurings
Their seed mouths pursed

For ten years, small fingers tap
The diurnal coils, feathery roots
Two tiny leaves, then four
What falls and rises in that time?

Waxen palest starlight, cold moons
Summon the princesses
Their slippers are violet, pink
dappled, toad striped satin

Dancers, if you part the grass
Stare deep into their eyes
A hidden lover’s shivering fancy
Such things pass and are purblind.


Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2019





Material Possessions


The stooped man, the humpbacked man
Carrying his wife’s old handbag
Black handbag, grey mac

Wind blowing hard
World in bag, books in a box
Yellowing, curling snailtrail pages

Dirty little koala stuck in a tree
A fuzzy bitchy toy
Svelte fella trips up steps
Chucks baby’s wheelalong
Young woman in pumps
Humps a freezer over a cliff
Old man again, slips between the skips
So old so bent so 45 degree angling

Death to all things
Death to dusty crusty stuff
The howling wind smashes
A clanging sign

The wedding day, the weeding day
The lasting broken peeling end
Recycling a bicycle bicycling
It’s twirling pedals
To an abbatoir bye-bye

A dried cat, a matted  peed on mat
A cupboard full of springs, a painting
A mattress full of DNA
The broken man, the bent

I ache for his wife’s handbag
Peppermints, dried up lipstick,purse
Perhaps his wife-

Gone forever, slung.


Veronica Aldous 2019

Mrs May’s Mould



Mrs May’s Mould

What lies beneath… the Ungodly Jam
Of Mrs May’s Brexit plan?
Once scraped, it’s good as new
The Raspberry’s saved!
The Toast goes free, (drum roll)
At last we gain back Border Control

Whilst she nibbles at the edges
We have our carrots, peas or aubergines
For Brussels gives us all our veggies
When the Pot is empty, what will we have?
Seasonal Caulis grown in manure?

No Charities but loads of Poor?
No Welfare State?
No Industry?
But wait! –

Maybe we can eat the Mould
That Mrs May leaves on her Plate
Edging closer, as she cogitates
Another Food Bank Universal Credit scam.

Veronica Aldous all right reserved 2019, please share

The War Photographer’s Son


girl 2

The War Photographer’s Son

The moon’s a trigger
his torso mapped with scars
perimeters, and the stars
are for hunting by
in strange scimitar regions
his camera flies
while my mother curls
me on her lap
and cries

there is always Reuters
to rely on and the papers
we have the old shrapnel
shards from netted stitches
trophies of an alien zone
maybe a return
camouflaged with laurels
my mother drops
the phone

the moon’s a shutter
its eye upon the dying boy
I feel for him/feel nothing
there is a part of me
that stalks the moonlit jungle
in big dusty boots
a nightmare up and running
my father
loads the film and

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 1984

This is an old poem of mine , published many years ago.

A Vulgar Boatman

little rabbit girl
A Vulgar Boatman

When I lay in a fox’s sleep by the wall, as they say
But I was one eye open and my legs itched for sprinting

You bedded down and gave me bees’ kisses, and much more
Some of which I was not wanting, and some of which I was –

You could never tell which bit was good, and which poor
“That is the way of lovemaking, it is not an art” , he said

(Certainly not, I thought, spitting your pretty blond hair into the brambles
and having no hankie either)

My buttons annoyed me after that, felt itchy and the pocket stained
With a lack of respect for my only being seventeen

It was my mother’s dress, so I felt put out that you dirtied it
Like Old Shuck had pissed upon me good and proper

I had to dye it purple such was my shame, I took to dyeing everything
With clots of elderberries which stank like stoat’s spoor

Cloppiting about like a shire horse after a nosebag!
Love is a series of cakes made with missing ingredients

You were one I made with no flour.

Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2019