Where to buy my publications

My first poetry collection, Fording the Stream, was published September 2017 and is available from Amazon.co.uk. Links below

Fording the Stream  by Jessica De Guyat ( previous pen name) 1st Poetry Collection

paperback: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fording-Stream-Collection-Jessica-Guyat/dp/1549777491 Price £4.99

Kindle: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Fording-Stream-Collection-Jessica-Guyat-ebook/dp/B075QMMLY1  Price £1.99

Memoir The Road To Cleethorpes Pier by Margaret Royall

Paperback: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Road-Cleethorpes-Pier-memoir-prose/dp/1999870573 £8.99 

Kindle: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Road-Cleethorpes-Pier-touching-childhood-ebook/dp/B08776HTMB  Price £0.99

Signed Author Copies of both paperbacks are available from myself via PayPal: PayPal.Me/MargaretRoyall

Fording The Stream price £6.50 ( to include p&p)

The Road To Cleethorpes Pier £ 10.50 ( to include p&p


email: margaretroyall@icloud.com

My New Collection! Details below

Above: New collection ‘Where Flora Sings’ is released 28th November. Pre-orders now being taken.
please go to PayPal.Me/Margaret Royall, order as friend/family and give your address. Price £12.50 inc p&p. Please email me if you have questions: margaretroyall@icloud.com

Doorways to a post Covid World

Currently I am fascinated by doorways and have been pursuing the idea of doorways to a post Covid future. Which bits of lockdown would we keep as improvements to our lives!p? What might we change? I have completed the first draft of a pamphlet of 13 poems on these ideas, mostly in sonnet or haiku form but not exclusively. I thought that my followers might want to take a look.

Here is the first draft of Doorways To The Future


Taking a look at how things might be beyond Covid-19
How will our world look? How will we feel?

Once Covid steps down

from being our chief concern 

New doors will open

What will we find there?

New ways of living our lives,

Changing our future?

There will be choices 

to make. Stay as we were, or 

forge a new pathway…

A greener future,

A kinder society,

Love to all people

What will you choose then?

Will you campaign for what

you feel strongly about?

Pause, take a fresh look 

at all possibilities,

Make up your own mind!


‘Love Thy Neighbour,’ Charity Work, Community Initiatives

Each day she walks to work past his old house

Through smeary window panes she often sees

An old man in his bed, still as a mouse,

His features masked by overhanging trees.

Clearly he’s sick and desperate lying there

Alone in bed, no relatives around.

She pauses, waves to him to show her care –

He could be dead and waiting to be found?

Today’s the day she takes a chance to  post

A greeting through the door, to wish him well. 

It plops down echoing in the hall, where ghosts

may find and keep it, read it, who can tell?

Next day, surprise, he waits there like a child 

with nurse and wheelchair, just to see her smile.


Telling it like it is, Avoiding the Blame Game

We know we should report with honesty

the things which happen causing malcontent

The easy option’s lying, being free

with truth, believing that it’s  kindly meant.

But such behaviour stores up trouble ahead

The truth will out at some point, causing rage.

When lying we don’t sleep easy in our bed,

We should all speak as one from the same page.

The latest ruse is ‘gaslighting’ I’m told, 

A cunning plan, a sensory assault,

Disguising truths with schemes and lies so bold

We start to think that we’re the ones at fault.

The liars must dig a hole to hide their guilt

But truthful men can keep the house they’ve built.


Arbitration, Campaigning, Promoting Pacifism

Dark skies pervade a land in deep distress

Perhaps the clouds are mourning a lost love?

A sombre mood prevails, a deep darkness

The birds of peace have flown, no turtle dove

Now nests within the city’s ravaged walls

Where once so many cooed and raised their young;

The atmosphere has changed, the landscape’s soul 

Is etched with grief, the victory unsung

Of heroes, warriors who have fought the cause

Now slain and buried deep within the earth.

Their quest was futile, tyranny and wars

Prevail, sweet peace is gone, we await the birth

Of justice, when the dead shall once more rise

In hope, as victory flares light up the skies 


Accepting help, Swallowing pride, Apologising

We fail to notice how our little lives

(Apportioned masterfully), run their course.

We may pretend that we are in control,

But in effect man’s choices have a source

Beyond him, which is only part revealed;

A tantalising glimpse of what might be

His future, if he follows surely on, 

Towing the line and waiting, just to see

What hopes may reach fruition given time,

Ambitions realised, avenues explored,

Imagining that he has willed it so,

Whereas in truth his plans have been ignored.

A hidden compass is our willing guide

Success comes when its message is applied 


Me too’ issues, Personal Space, Respecting Free Will

Do not paint my portrait,

for I have a changing face

that alters with age

Do not declaim me in verse,

for I am a fledgling poet

not defined by genre

Do not photograph me,

for I am a free spirit

not confined to time and space

Do not dance my dance,

for I am a swirling ribbon

unrestricted by routine

Do not sing my song,

for I may have a new one

not yet composed

Do not aspire to know me,

for I grow in wisdom and change….

Allow me to be ME!


Gather ye rosebuds….’ ‘Strike while the iron’s hot’

Gently she carries us, floating downstream

Rhythmic, hypnotic, tempering the mind

Gliding in measured flow, wrapped in a dream

Past fields, trees and banks where reeds intertwine

Coot, moorhen and mallard paddle alongside

And dab chicks dive under the boat for shade 

The pumping house chimney commands the sky,

Behemoth of bygones, whose pomp never fades

We squeeze under bridges, scars etched on walls

from past times when horses pulled boats along,

Then drift to the aqueduct, briefly pause,

Observing the wild life’s enchanting song…

What pleasure is ours as the world ripples past

Come then, ‘carpe diem’ – such bliss will not last!


Supporting refugees, the homeless, the displaced, the marginalised…..

Now thirty two he’s found love, has a wife 

And life has turned out better than he thought.

He learned the language quickly, though self-taught,

Did not react to bullies, get into fights

Though it was tough for him in a strange land

In early childhood, he learned to forgive,

to turn the other cheek, tried hard to live

the best he could, without a parent’s hand.

The hardship he had suffered made him strong – 

To combat loneliness he’d read and write,

Became a big sensation overnight

With pithy stories, poems made into songs

Yet as a man he still missed kith and kin

And wept remembering the child within


Caring for the Environment, our Planet, Fighting Climate Change

In lockdown months the air became so clear,

wild animals revisited the town

And thrilling birdsong brought us joy and cheer

In days where we felt useless, sad and down.

We spent time in our kitchens baking bread

Long afternoons in gardens planting flowers

No restaurants to go to, so instead

We cooked and baked to while away the hours.

Each new calf born, each new tree bud we saw,

Took photos charting progress of the Spring

Via Zoom we showed our grandkids times before

Plastics choked wildlife, throw-away became king.

Perhaps time should rewind to the  40s, 50s

When shopping came by bike and folk were thrifty?


Reducing waste, Eliminating plastic use, Repurposing

I often wonder if they feel sad,

the recycled clothes in the charity shop?

Maybe they feel rejected? Suffer separation anxiety?

I imagine them holding parties in the wardrobe

when their owners are out at work,

getting high on moth balls, swinging naked on coat hangers,

shoes shamelessly tapping out the Charleston in their racks.

Those Jimmy Choos, what an incredible Oxfam find!

Too small for my feet….. but I love them anyway.

I like to coax them out of their box and stroke them

as you stroke a cat, hold them to my ear and

hear them purr. I stare into their lacquered reflection

and see my face ….. a lopsided moon, squidgy, 

out of focus like a fairground hall of mirrors…..

Was she an arrogant rich bitch, their first owner? 

Or a regular nine-to-five shopgirl who won the lottery?

What stories those shoes could tell if only they had

the power of speech. I could listen all day!


Investing wealth and resources for the benefit of all, Enabling Projects

Wise woman or white witch?

Star-child of the universe, sapphire eyes, 

just a soupçon of otherworldliness.

Her mission whispered on the breeze:

To purge the poverty of city slum children

To feed and clothe the refugee and the homeless.

She tiptoes through grief-mulched meadows,

down cobbled lanes echoing thudding boots

of war-weary soldiers, supports their widows.

She eases the birth of breeched calves,

Revives dying infants in mothers’ arms.

Tree bark and plant sap are smudged 

with her sweet kundalini energy.

She is invisible to most humans,

yet indigo children hear her sweet singing …

On wolf moon nights they catch 

her winged flight across planets and galaxies.

Angel of hope or Nature’s philanthropist?

Her identity an eternal mystery.


Being thankful for what we have, Showing Appreciation

A sharp wind licks the casement window panes

And cottage fires are lit against the chill,

Maple-tipped leaves chase swirling down the lanes,

The old gnarled apple tree, high on the hill,

Pregnant with harvest’s bounty, gently moans,

Dipping her laden boughs towards the earth,

Duetting with the wind she sighs and moans,

Awaiting bright fulfilment with the birth

Of juicy apples, dappled green and red,

Filling the orchard baskets, nectar-sweet,

Tempting the children eager to be fed

They plop down smiling at the workers’ feet.

The Harvest Angels sing from up above,

With gratitude for harvests gathered with love



Accepting Joy and Sorrow, Good and Bad,  Celebrating the natural cycles of life

The Belfast skies weep tears of deep distress

As grey clouds mourn the loss of their dear son*

A brittle dawn breaks through with marked tristesse

Heads down the locals brave the morning run

The turgid Lagan crawls through swirling mist

No birdsong yet is heard, no deep lament

The city waits with breath held for the tryst;

His Muse invokes a man whose words were blessed;

Son of a shipyard worker, poet fine

Who took brave stance against sectarian rule,

A polymath, possessed of brilliant mind

Artist, translator, words his daily tools.

Belfast today clings tightly to its own –

The city’s arms enfold him – he is home!

*James Ellis, actor, theatre director, poet from Belfast NI, best known for his TV role as policemen Bert Lynch in the 60s series “Z Cars”, as well as “Ballykissangel”, “One by One”

“Playing the Field” and other work on stage and screen.

My poetry appears in two highly-respected journals

Delighted to tell you all that my poetry has featured in 2 well-respected literary journals recently. They are IMPSPIRED and THE BLUE NIB.
Impspired featured 3Poems and The Blue Nib featured 5 poems .

In May 2020 I was interviewed for the latter by Uk/Ireland poetry editor Tracy Gaughan.

Here is a link to the interview



I am joint winner of the Hedgehog Poetry collection competition

Abundantia FLoralibus will be published in 2021. Watch this space.

A taster poem from it is below

My Memoir is receiving praise from readers of ‘The Road to Cleethorpes Pier’

I am delighted with the response I have received to the release of my memoir of childhood. There are 5 star reviews on Amazon, including the one below. Copies can be bought from Amazon as paperback or as ebook downloaded to Kindle

Ebook: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08776HTMB

Paperback: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Road-Cleethorpes-Pier-memoir-prose/dp/1999870573/

One of my poems ‘Washday Wednesdays’, speaks about how complicated doing the laundry was in the 1940s/50s without washing machines! My Nan came to help my Mum and they used equipment which is now displayed in museums. Below you can see a photo taken at an exhibition at Lincoln Castle showing zinc tub, dollyposher ( for beating dirt out of the clothes), a scrubbing board and a tin bath. In addition ( not shown) a huge mangle was needed to put the clothes through and sting out the water before pegging out on the line. Doing the weekly laundry was a very time-consuming activity.


On windy washdays mum was stressed.
Wind chimes clanked and jangled
in the fierce gale. Washing flapped wildly

on the clothes line –- a string of ghostly bodies
on the hangman’s gallows,
bloated corpses with distorted limbs.…

In the lull between gusts you might catch
the crackle of sweet wrappers in forgotten pockets,
loose buttons tapping out morse-code messages.

Across the lawn crumpled leaves,
as lined as Nanny Buttle’s street-map face,
went chasing ceaselessly back and forth.

The tight-lipped dolly pegs swung
like pendulums with each new assault.
Yet their resistance proved too much

for the wind’s frenzied onslaught.
He would turn on the sulking clouds
with their churlish attitude… . . .

Something had to give,
Someone had to bend to his will
before he blew himself out.

With a frown on her face, hair tied up factory-girl style
in a neat turban, my mum pushed the damp clothes through
the mangle, Wilfred Pickles would often be on the radio.

I knew it was best to make myself scarce,
so I would creep off to my bedroom with a book,
knowing I could read my Enid Blyton tales undisturbed.

Publication date is almost here! Weds 20th May 2020 The Road to Cleethorpes Pier – a memoir of childhood

I am really excited that the great day is very close now, just 4 days away on Weds 20th May. The Paperback copies of my book have arrived and I am now taking oreders via PayPal. Go to PayPal.com and the link PayPal.me/MargaretRoyall. The price is £10.50 to include post and packing. The memoir will also be available on Amazon and Kindle, £8.99 for paperback and £4.99 for Kindle download.

It is an unusual fusion of poetry, prose, old photographs and memorabilia. It loosely takes its form from the Japanese Haibun but is updated to a modern western style.

Here is a synopsis of what to expect

The Road to Cleethorpes Pier
A Memoir in Prose and Verse

‘I never missed my childhood home
until the tide stopped rolling in and
ochre sand no longer crunched between my toes …’

Nottinghamshire poet Margaret Royall’s new memoir is unusual. It takes the form of a ‘Haibun’ – a traditional Japanese combination of prose and poetry.
Margaret says: ‘I have chosen this form deliberately. The range of Haibun is broad and frequently includes autobiography. In this case the combination of prose and contemporary poetry has allowed me to really convey the beauty of growing up by the seaside in a bygone era.’
The history:
Margaret was born in 1944 to the bustle of Cleethorpes. Her world is one of family outings in a tiny Austin 7, ferry rides across the Humber, and lifelong friendships that are forged in unexpected places.
Family runs like a comforting thread throughout this lovely book, and it has been illustrated with many original photographs.

Readers will enjoy the nostalgia of poems about pushing damp clothes through the mangle on washdays, the smell of gas light, and eating fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. There are also vivid descriptions of steam travel to London, and the former glory of the Grimsby fishing fleet. And finally there are many powerfully subtle, heartfelt moments conveyed by poems and extracts about the lifelong friendships Margaret has formed along the way.
The Road to Cleethorpes Pier is beautiful portrait of childhood in prose and verse ‐ perfect for anyone who has dreamed of growing up by the seaside

Topical: Margaret Royall’s passion for poetry began in early childhood. Retirement brought the opportunity to pursue her writing seriously, giving voice to acute experiences of loss, grief and chronic illness.

The Road to Cleethorpes Pier is published on 20 May 2020 in ebook and paperback priced £8.99
A special hand bound hardback edition is also being produced at the publisher’s studio


Love Calls Me Home
A breath of cool air kisses my brow,
disturbs the tangled curls on the pillow.
The heady scent of opening lilies
drifts up from the garden.

Threads of childhood long ago
weave complex webs behind closed lids.
As the fuse catches and smoulders
the kaleidoscope shifts into focus

Floating through the open window
on a chill sea‐breeze in late Spring
I sense invisible hands supporting me –
ghost hands, male and female

I watch myself on mornings of promise
wandering bare‐foot along the beach,
catching the fishermen on the jetty,
struggling ashore with their haul of cockles and shrimps.

Clambering down the slipway to the breakwater,
I quietly stare out to Spurn point,
waiting for the revolving light to flash again,
for the incoming tide to fill the gullies.

The film scene plays on in my head,
reliving that childhood magic,
my brain erasing negative scenes between
then and now, no second takes possible.

Startled, I wake again on the cool side of the bed
in sheets like shrouds. The silence is deafening.
Yet just for a tide‐span I was there again,
back in that safe cocoon.

[‘Love Calls Me Home’ is an extract from ‘The Road to Cleethorpes Pier’ (2020, Crumps Barn Studio), copyright of the author © Margaret Royall 2020. All rights reserved.]

Bibliographic data:
Published by Crumps Barn Studio, Syde, Cheltenham GL53 9PN http://www.crumpsbarnstudio.co.uk
Paperback ISBN: 9781999870577
178 pages
46 black and white photographs Release date: 20 May 2020

Front cover and author photo

Photo of Cleethorpes Beach August 2019

The Road to Cleethorpes Pier


This is my latest project – a poetry memoir of childhood and adolescence growing up in Cleethorpes, Lincolnshire.

I have been looking out old photographs from the late 1940s /early 50s and I was forcibly struck by how “ Victorian” they look. Everyone seemed to wear a hat and suit, even on relaxed occasions. The pram in the photo looks ancient. I remember that my mum pushed me around in something called a Tansad – a cross between a pram and a pushchair, made by the Tansad company, hence the name, and widely in use at that time.


The adverts for Cleethorpes boasted
five miles of glorious golden sand –
no mention of the biting East wind!

The Meggies*were always a hardy bunch –
a daily dose of mind-numbing fresh air
an absolute must for the health-conscious locals.

My mum and friends believed in bracing walks.
She would push me in the old Tansad**along the Kingsway –
fine when I didn’t have to share it with Michael!

Oh how I hated him, loud, impatient, whiny,
sharing the pram with a boy was humiliating.
The only recompense a choc-ice at the end,

bought from Mr Oliphant’s open-all-hours shop
crammed with buckets, spades and kiss-me-quick hats
exuding cheerful optimism on the sea-front

Familiarity breeds contempt, they say. How true!
It is only now, living as I do in a landlocked place,
that I find myself frequently craving the wildness of the seashore

*Meggies – folk originating from Cleethorpes. The origin of the term is disputed.
**Tansad – a type of pushchair with adjustable footboard in use
in the 1940s/50s. Tansad became a generic name for a baby buggy


At birth displaying gentle tangerine
With inner bell of warmest apricot pink
Upward majestically it toiled
Striving towards the weak light of first Spring
Much bolder then the shades became
Blood red tendrils interspersed
With splashes of coral and ruby red

Then all too soon the glory starts to fade
Yet still a nuanced cadence is perceived;
The withering petals glow defiant crimson
As though they’re holding back a loss of blood
And clinging to last vestiges of life
This sweet enchantment warms my heart
Dispelling gloom, enlivening March’s chill
Sweet memories of this colourful profusion
Locked deep within my soul’s eternity

Reflections on a Country Walk in January


Forgotten, abandoned, Mother Earth is sleeping
Hidden away underground in pensive solitude
Accepting her role of prisoner under Winter’s rule.

Soft brindle cattle with questioning eyes
Huddle together In rough-hewn stalls
They do not complain at their sad loss of freedom
Their bodies take shelter from deep, piercing cold
But their souls yearn to roam through buttercup fields
Patiently waiting, their hooves stamp out
The long-lost memory of a summer dance.

Gossamer cobwebs like shrouds in the hedgerows
Weave tales from the goddess of maid, mother, crone
The shivering threads whisper close-guarded secrets
Cast far on the wind for the wise ones to hone

My breath catches quick in the sharp, frosty air
I shudder and zip up my Barbour coat tightly
A battle with Jack Frost requires some cunning!
I flip up the collar and fumble, white-fingered
In over-crammed pockets for mittens and headgear –
And find – Emma’s beanie from Nursery school days!
Complete with its fox ears and button-bead eyes
I pull it down snug over frizzy, damp curls
Its jaunty ears bobbing in time with my steps

Oozing mud clings to these Doc Marten boots
My hike through the fields becomes clumsy and slow
The moaning wind wrestles the trees in defiance
No audible birdsong …….yet, bravely nearby
A robin observes me from high on the hedgetop
His head cocked bemused as I plod on my way

Beyond the wood a welcome cottage beckons
Smoke rises, and I long for the cosy cheer of home
A steaming bowl of hot broth, buttered crumpets by the fire
Toasting stiffened fingers and stretching aching limbs
Once safe inside, the howling Winter storms
Can rant and rage at will – they hold no fear for me!
For now is the time of rest and quiet introspection
But soon Earth will don again her cloak of green perfection