Shadow of our love.

You wore silk

A delicate shade


Gold brocade

Your veil feigning innocence

You captured my heart.


Nylon shift

Hides your sagging form

Rings forlorn

Scars are worn

On old withered hands laid bare

Our love lingers on.


© Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for MTB at d’Verse where we are using the form Shadorma.

To me the form suggested shadow and I thought about how as we age we still keep our shadow of youth.




Mum’s last letter.

Handwriting didn’t come easily to me, my words tumbled out across the page as fast as my thoughts would carry them but with no time for neatness clarity or punctuation. Laborious lessons trying to perfect a precise clear-cut style between the lines, the endless lines, my sister’s handwriting remains the same as it was in those joined up lessons at school. Mine still resembles ducklings charging towards some azure blue lake with all the joy of momentum, joy and not a care in the world for how it looks to the rest of the world.

Her last letter, heaven only knows why she posted the parcels so early for Christmas, perhaps she knew. Her last act of love. She died on the Sunday half a world away and by Friday I held her last letter in my hand. Her writing cut through the void, the years the tears, the fears.

Precision and care

Her words carefully planted.

Snowdrops cut through snow.


©Alison Jean Hankinson

Simple things

It was a simple gesture

………………….  As the sun rose the seedling grew

Nosed its way nonchalantly through the weeds.

…………….  Caressed by early summer sun,

Nourished by November rains.


With all its might it pushed through the merriment

Of opportunistic pumpkins and weary watermelons

And reached high for the sky,

……….  One leaf at a time,

stretching                sighing               saluting the sun.


It was a simple gesture

…………. It spoke of unfaltering love.

………………………… The sunflower smiled

…………   And reminded me that life is enriched

By the simple things.


©Alison Jean Hankinson.

This is for d’Verse meeting at the bar, where we were asked to consider silence. This sunflower was in my garden in NZ, planted as a seed by my husband to cheer me up in  Spring/summer 2014 when I was unable to tend the garden following major surgery. I could see it from the bedroom window.

Leap of faith

From stability and steadfast surety,

We left for uncharted waters

Certain that resilience, faith and hope

Would enable us to endure

And weather uncertainties, brave challenges and more

It turned out to be a leap of faith

And fearsome obstacles lurked behind every door.


©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for the first quadrille of the year at d’Verse. The leap was last year and I am hoping that this year we will be able to get a stronger foothold on this side…regroup consolidate…build…grow….heal….With love to you this New Year. Namaste.



Ode to the town hall clock.

The town hall clock, hands of time

Counting the minutes, measuring the moments

Of our paltry lives.


We don’t look up enough

Sometimes we don’t see beyond our own story

Yet still the hands move round.


That same clock struck 11, sixteen years ago.

Same minute, same location, same season.

The leaves fell to the ground in remembrance.


Synchronicity in those hands

You were so small then in your red coat.

Time stood still for that one moment.


I captured your essence in early digital perfection.

The father, the child, the moment

Beneath the town hall clock, the hands that never stop.


©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse. It is my ode to the town hall clock which seems visible from just about everywhere in Lancaster. The theme and timing is appropriate as it will be Remembrance weekend. The feature image was taken after the service in 2001 where ironically my husband was in the remembrance parade before he became a veteran of war.






In peaceful sleep.

With patient love he watched her as she slept

She who had held him close to breast as child

Deep within his chest his aching heart wept.

Whilst she appeared contented in her dreams and smiled

As though her fears and troubles were finally reconciled

For soon the relentless punishing pain would be gone

Yet in his memory-this moment of love would linger on.


©Alison Jean Hankinson

This is for d’Verse where we were asked to write in Chaucerian stanza. First time I have done this.

The final slumber….

I am not sure I got the meter right.

The image is my Grandmother and her eldest son Frank.