102. Tim Boardman
Family man, creative man, and Yorkshireman
Tim Boardman, a poet from Otley, West Yorkshire, crafts lyrical, intimate pieces that illuminate ordinary life, blending reflection, memory, and gentle storytelling into moments of subtle emotional resonance.
A devoted family man, Tim balances his life between his roles as husband, father, teacher, and poet. His work celebrates those intersections — where care meets creativity, and where everyday life becomes poetry.
Poems
An Angel in Morrisons
I saw an angel in Morrisons. She was at the checkout, buying her weekly shop. Her golden wings glittered in the light, and I was awestruck— stopped in my tracks— while people pushed past. No one noticed. But I was transfixed. I wasn’t even there to buy. I needed the toilet before a meeting, and didn’t want to walk in just asking for the loo. So I was here by accident— just a passing moment that shouldn’t have happened. Like when I forgot my jacket this morning and had to go back home. Rain was imminent. I thought of that— how if I hadn’t gone back, I would have missed the angel and her shopping. < < <
Churchyard
There’s a ramekin, on the bench in the churchyard— pink blossom from the tree above scattered around it like confetti. It catches the light, casts a shadow across the bench— and it is full of cigarette butts. A small devotion to tidiness as the petals fall. The pink blossom drifts to the edges of the stone path. The daffodils are fading now, their heads bowed to their imaginary reflection And the bench— early morning— is usually taken by a solitary man with a can of beer and a careful thirst. He lifts the can like a quiet hymn The blossom falls. The light moves on. The bowl fills slowly No sermon, no hand on the shoulder— just the day beginning again for the solitary man. < < <
Shark
The loosened cardboard Costa sign torn from its fastening beats in the wind, caught round a roadside bollard beside the petrol station Within the café glass I sit staring and watch its restless motion. There in the window my own image returns — myself regarding that loosening torn board labouring in the gusts. At length the wind prevails. Freed from the iron post the sign drifts outward and glides across the forecourt. And suddenly it seems — a cardboard shark slow-sailing over the darkened ground, the spilled rainbow of dissipatied oil catching the low sun so that the tarmac glitters and reflects the fin < < <
Hotel Breakfast
On holiday I hide coco pops beneath my muesli— like some child hiding the truth and girls in pyjamas in the breakfast restaurant (the same girls I saw outside McDonald’s, crying at 10pm) fight over dried-out eggs, fried and scrambled. A framed lettering proclaims HAP PIN ESS. It smells of waste. A slot machine glows. ‘I need to gather the troops.’ Flip-flops and crocs are the footwear. No one has slept. Coffee drips from the machine, spilling into the carpet, its pattern long erased. An older man, belly over belt, trails a young waiter. And in the corner— the slot machine still glowing. I’ve got a taste in my mouth of the hotel like something has been living in there overnight < < <
Carmarthen
The Jehovahs Opposite, a man of the streets. Both are eating Greggs pasties — warm, with coffee, out of paper bags that gather crumbs. Both stare into the abyss, and beyond. One stands in the doorway of a closed-down shop, the others outside M & S. It’s pouring down. The streets virtually empty reflect the leaden sky, where faith and hunger share the same kind of Light < < <
Angel 2
The angel is outside of Morrisons. She has her own cardboard to sit on, shading her eyes from the sun with her hand, greeting each shopper as they enter the supermarket. She also has her own bag with worldly possessions. Receiving her wings, she rises to catch the bus in baggy joggers and a red zip top, the halo replaced by a bun crushed on top of her head. < < <
Wonderful collection of poems. Really enjoyed them all ❤️