Tag Archives: poetry



Cuddle into me tonight,
Close your eyes and take flight.
Rest your head,
It’s time for bed.
Sighing deep, love complete.

Whispering you’re not alone,
Nestled safely in your home.
The need to write and not forget.
Love is here,
Hold me near.


Felicity Fox

© Felicity Fox I am love
© Felicity Fox
I am love

13 Lowfield Road

Etched in my memory is 13 Lowfield Road.

Too young to understand or judge, writing to you I sent my letters.

Kept in your pocket one after another, and I kept writing.

On the day you died one arrived, but you will never know.

Rolling your ciggies, sitting close, sneaking out of mass for a half.

13 Lowfield Road.

Walking past the letter box, I think of you.

With nowhere to send my letters.

Kind and gentle you were.

Never speaking, always words on a page, and how at ten I never knew.

News of your passing met with tears and misunderstanding.

No more letters would I send.

Sitting on your couch I see you rolling your cigarettes, and a ten-year old

beside  you.

There’s a stale smell of smoke, braces and a stick, but they don’t see you like I do.

13 Lowfield Road, the place I sent my letters.

© Felicity Fox

When I’m not there

It’s not the badge that you wear,
Nor the scroll that you hold,
It’s calling him a star,
It’s who you are.
It’s the time that you give,
The love that you bring,
The heart that you show,
The pain that you hide.
It’s every day that you’re there,
It’s his eyes at your name,
It’s the void that you fill,
When I’m not there.

Thank you.

By Felicity Fox


Bumpty Bumpty Bump – For the Camel that should have been a Donkey

ImageI’m like a meerkat watching mine. Mine being my son, the Innkeeper. Not a starring role, but there’s always next year and maybe I’ll join the PTA.

I shouldn’t, but I only have eyes for one. And seated next to me they’re leaning forward. My peripheral vision is blurred by an iPad. I can’t see my Innkeeper. I can’t see him. There are now hundreds of them on stage. Where is he? Stop leaning. Is it me or is it very hot in here? Oh, “there he is.” My son, my first born. Born in an NHS stable. I can see him. It must be the star.

My Arafat in the distance. Across the stage, my red tea towel dons his beautiful head. And I relax happily into my seat. They’re leaning forward. Not again. In the spirit of Christmas, shouldn’t we be sharing?

So, I’m leaning and stretching and doing the down dog, just to catch a glimpse of his singing. “Bumpty bumpty bump, riding on a camel”, I could have sworn it was a donkey…bumpty bumpty bump, looking for the baby Jesus.” My heart soars at every line, as I sing silently along. There in the distance, stretched across the plains, i.e the stage, my son.

This is it. The first school nativity play.

“Oh lovely, the angels are here to guide the way.” “That’s nice.” Awwhh….just a little to the left sweeties, I can’t see my keeper. Just a few steps. There are hundreds of them, like Andrex littering the stage. There are only four innkeepers, you’re doing alright son. Next up the wise men; Goldie, Frankie and I never can remember the last one.

They’re all so cute and lovely, but to be honest it’s tunnel vision and I’m planked at the wrong side of the room. Joseph and Mary are centre stage and the baby is away in a Manger, but my little innkeeper like everyone else’s Andrex, wise men and the camel that should be a donkey, is all that I can see and a star is born.

My Everything

Shining bright you are a sparkler in the night,

Watching on, I glimpse into your childhood tonight.

Bright you are,

Loved are you,

You are my everything.

Will you remember how we watched the night sky?

Or how you radiate in my arms.

My son, I will know.

And when the time comes for you to dart into the night,

I will remember the 5th of November.

You, my everything.

Marks on the Wall by Felicity Fox

Marks on the Wall

She’s a Million miles away,

Destruction and beauty captured.

Art and frustration as raw as the burnt ground.

No one’s taking note,

No one’s listening.

Fenced in, she leaves her mark on the wall where others have been.

Void from any use, in this World.

Apart from the sketches, where will she leave her mark?

Kicking the sand, she knows she’s alone.

Caving in, she walks on.

Original musings by Felicity Fox