I write poems simply out of delight, and I don't pretend my poems are anything other than rather personal expressions of simplicity and wonder. You can read some more here if you like, or you can read some favourite poems by other people here. This poem about deer is fairly typical of my writing:

The Quiet Ones

It is that time of year again,

When the deer steal silently down from the mountain,

The frosts descending to the foot of the glen,

Earth hard like iron under a starry sky.

In summer they run so wild on the heights,

Their dun flanks merging with the slopes of the hill,

Gracious company of fleet-footed ones,

Lovely as the sun-streaked heather on a day of showers,

Pretty as the speckled trout in the shining stream.

But tonight I see them across the darkening acres,

Hushed in the woods, their eyes gleaming

In the headlights of an approaching car

That sweeps past and is gone

In the consuming darkness and still evening.

Here in the deep winter,

They come foraging,

They wait for the distant spring to return once more,

They are quiet as a moonlit night.