I discovered I was a poet in my mid-thirties.  Living alone with my young daughter, giving myself space, I was surprised and delighted by an outpouring of poems.  They arose entirely from my life experiences, capturing my emotions.

I was busy finding out who I was, a long and necessary process, challenging the norms of my upbringing, doing loads of personal development.  After university I had tried three careers, then “dropped out” into an alternative lifestyle.

After this valuable time alone, I went back to my partner, had a second daughter, got married.  After a brief self-publishing project with a group of fellow women writers, family life took over.  I developed a new career as a work-winner in the construction industry, mainly supporting engineers.  Settled years.  I forgot I was a poet.

Then, in May 2013, after 36 years together, my husband died.  He died on the Thursday morning. My beloved 99‑year-old mother had died three days before, on the Monday evening.  A difficult week.  A while later, poetry again came to my rescue, as a vital tool to describe emotional events, to understand and express my feelings.

Poetry stayed with me this time, and is now central to my life.  Retired, living alone, I am enjoying a new relationship and lots of wonderful friends, along with yoga, 5 rhythms dance, gardening, growing fruit and vegetables, reading, involvement with the extended family, grandparenting, and a new and unexpected interest in opera.

A rich and full life, fertile ground from which my poems continue to emerge.