Phyl Jackson


No rapport with another’s soul,
No sharing of the world’s affairs,
But solitary, desolate,
Deep lies the sense that no-one cares.
The spirit grieves, in silence numb,
And yearns for kinship with its own,
No answering call supplies its need,
The suppliant’s heart remains as stone.


From The Best of Word Craft — a modern anthology
by members of Crawley and Horsham Writers’s Circles
Published by Wren Press Autimn 1987

The wakening to a darkened world
That vanishes in floods of light
As switches in a myriad homes
Are pressed to chase away the night.

The cosy indoor sheltered life
Contrasted with the chill outside
While frost lies stiffly on the grass
Or glistens where the children slide.

Outlines of trees bereft of leaves,
The pond’s deep ice, the drifts of snow.
The pastel sunset’s golden gleam
Presaging early twilight’s glow.

Deserted shores ’neath leaden skies
The silent woods, brown-furrowed leas,
Dank mist on hills or motorways,
Bright tinselled shops and Christmas trees.

The icy winds from north and east
The lash of rain that’s so unkind,
Continuous images unfold
To bring the winter scene to mind.


From The Best of Word Craft — a modern anthology
By members of Crawley and Horsham Writers’s Circles
Published by Wren Press August 1987

Today is all we have, the past is dead,
The future beckons luringly away.
We waste life’s precious moments looking back
Regretting deeds from vanished yesterday.
Nor yet too far ahead our sights must set,
The distant scene will be what it will be,
But to the full our present hours live
Until all time becomes eternity.


Green England is my home country
And I shall never tire
Of all her many splendoured scenes
That do my pen inspire.

Thatched cottages in village streets
Their gardens bright with flowers,
Meand’ring streams where cattle graze
Through all the sunlit hours.

The woods and orchards down in Kent;
The lovely Yorkshire dales.
The borderland where Shropshire’s hills
Slide gently into Wales.

The lovely rugged Cornish coast;
Northumbria’s windswept shores.
Mountains and lakes where Wordsworth wrote,
The barren Peakland moors.

The peaceful fens where sunsets glow
Across East Anglian skies,
The golden warm Northampton brick
And Cotswold stone and spires.

It is my pleasure thus to roam
So freely on its Ways,
To keep its beauty in my heart
And love it all my days.


This morning the wind has a fancy to play,
A shriek and a chuckle — he’s up and away.
O’er hilltop and river,
                                by broad grassy down,
And along dusty highways
                                that lead to the town.
Through meadows and forests,
                                o’er valley and fall
To the long sandy beach
                                where the wild sea-birds call.

While high rock the boats
                                on the billowy sea,
The sparkling waves dance
                                as he chuckles in glee.
The fisherfolk passing are kissed
                                with the spray
The wind laughs the louder as hats fly away.
Umbrellas soar high, tall in trees
                                they are caught
Ha! Ha! roars the wind at the mischief
                                he’s wrought.

He shrieks round the housetops
                                and slams fast the doors,
And rattles the windows —
                                still louder he roars,
Then spying the fleecy white clouds
                                scudding by
He’s gone — in a flash, on a chase
                                thro’ the sky.
But what’s this? Some clothes in a
                                dazzling white row,
“I’ll soon set them free,”
                                and away the pegs go!

He peeps into keyholes ad whistles
                                through locks,
And bends down the stems of the tall
He races and chases, on fun he’s intent,
And rambles and scrambles until he is spent.
“I’ve done enough mischief,
                                a rest I will take”
Says the wind whirling off with some leaves
                                in his wake.

(written in 1937, aged 15)

Published in Wordcraft Autumn Issue 1982
Quarterly magazine produced by Crawley Writers’s Circle