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The Peace Paradox of Kalaallit Nunaat

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 The Peace Paradox of Kalaallit Nunaat In Primary School in the Western world we learn the names of continents and our countries are marked out with lolly-stick flags stuck together with pva glue. We are taught to pin our dreams safely to soft, cork-boarded maps, and sail across peaceful waters in triangle-shaped boats into circular suns by means of our ever-expanding imaginations. — To these children Greenland is an icy island in the Arctic Ocean, perhaps where Father Christmas lives, near the North Pole. In Secondary School in the Western world we learn topographical terms, the names of native cultures and the ways in which our countries made their marks on history as leaders of the free world, including slavery, wars and alliance building. We’re taught to dream like Martin Luther King did and to question the norm, to build a better future for our own children. — To the next generation Greenland is marked out as an island of peace in a sea of troubles; an example of how historica...
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Embrace

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Strolling, heed the call of the robin, singing, Ascending, shrill over the soar-roar of the M5 tarmac - The Willow Man strides on, weathered, withered, Forever reaching - Hold me in your hopeful embrace, Like a Guardian, of Space. A Wensley 17.01.2026
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My Core

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Inspired by the Ullie-Kaye poem below... My Core Still trying to trust the plan,  the feeling in my heart,  the core feeling I keep returning to  despite the emotions of each day. But what if I can't keep seizing the day  because my mental energy is diminishing  from all the uncertainty... I need my core to be strong  so I can expend my energies  in all the areas of my life which require it... If only we could recharge our hearts  as easily as we recharge our phones. We can... all it takes is a hug. A Wensley 4.01.2026
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Late December Light

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The late December sunlight streams through the house today,  giving life to nature's elements  held within these white domesticated walls; the heady scent of gifted lilies fills the air,  which, though dyed pink and blue,  embrace the light's powers  of translucency, with vibrancy, bouncing life's colour across the former shades  of grey; the Mistletoe, tied with red ribbon above me, is curling, shrivelling, waning, as the same light catches a robin's red breast who through my window replenishes. The end of another year. Your light is always here. A Wensley 30.12.2025
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Childhood is a Waning Crescent

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Childhood is a Waning Crescent If I could measure the width of your childhood between this year and the next, dear girls, it would be as thin as a waning crescent. It will be barely visible soon. If I could measure the circumference of my pride, dear Esther, between your mocks and results day, it would be radiance squared. We’ll go full circle next year with dear Rosa! If I could measure the hem of your dreams, between your proms and Eighteen, dear girls, it would equal the number of stars in the sky. And expand infinitely, just like the Universe. If I could measure the angle of your edge, between your spectrum and your brilliance, dear Rosa, it would be right, not obtuse. And all the worlds would turn in your direction. If I could measure the fate of the Earth and place it for you in the palm of your hands, it too would be as thin as a waning crescent. But it's all the brighter for you two living on it. A Wensley 16.12.2025 🌙 Photo by Ralph Hoyte 📸 
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Carted away

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Carted away From the drudgery of my kitchen sink I hear the sound of distant speakers Reverberating Slade off the homes On our estate, Oh I wish it could be Christmas everyday! It's a carnival cart, A Bridgwater carnival cart, And as it draws closer I feel compelled To witness this spectacle up close, To see the awe lit up by bulb-light In the faces of my neighbours' children. My teens seem not as enthused as I, A blankness on their faces when I suggest we go out to see. Perhaps their childlike wonder has passed away, Never to be seen again? But mine? It needed testing… So, picture the image of a woman in her late 40s Striding out of her back gate  And up the cart-bulb illuminated street To stop and wave As Father Christmas  From his wooden, community-created-car Sits high above a cracker-converted tractor  and waves back, with gusto! There is joy! Maybe not in the passing eyes  Of the empty donation-bucket carriers, But yes! There is joy in this perimenopausal world...
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For Mike...

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  For Mike, on what would have been your 70th A smile, That's what I remember. A smile, Laughter, cheekiness and fun, A joker in the pack of Higgs'  As we sat around the table playing cards Each Boxing Day, In-laws and out-laws altogether, Your wife Sue an out-law like me, Wedded to a Brother of a Brother of a Brother of a Brother of a Brother, A sister-in-law of a Sister of a Sister of a Sister, Such a big family, But we were all welcome at the table. Cold meats and pickles  Bags of coins, drinks and giggles, Grandchildren, nieces and nephews, Billy the Bulldog, All sharing gifts and Playing on the rug. The years go by so quickly, Young ones with their own young ones, Elders gone, Sue and a year or so ago you too, But the smile, I'll always remember that of you, I hope you knew how much it meant To all those in that Sydenham semi's rooms. And how, just like your Brother Ant Celebrated his 70th, when we last saw you in '22, You deserve to be remembered dearly On wha...
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