The Baths of Aphrodite, a poem by Brian Johnstone. It was to picnic, grace these woods. A belly round and moulded as a loaf,. Her locks, these burnished leaves. That drift in every crack. We taste her in these waters. Streaming from the rock,. From the basin of our hands. What custom has strung up here.

ALL MY NEW POSTS, POEMS, AND COMMENTS ARE ON THE BLOG PAGE. I am a poet-priest and Chaplain of Girton College Cambridge. You can read more about who I am and what I do on the Interviews Page.

Blog of Poetry Advocates for Children and Young Adults.

The Black Light Engine Room. Ink, Sweat and Tears. I am not a Silent Poet. Three Drops From A Cauldron.

Thirty poems in thirty days. Vote Selkie Singing at the passing place. The writings on the wall. Well at least not all the time.

A nostalgic dip into a 20th century toy box. My toys from the 1950s. My toys from the 1960s. When I was a child I had pocket money each Saturday. First, threepence, then sixpence, then ninepence, then a shilling. My office was that of a publishing house. I was editor of a weekly called.