A Spot in Time

By Tim Boardman

Life is made up of moments—some small, some vast—each leaving a mark on our memory and our heart. A Spot in Time gathers these moments, places, and feelings: the quiet grief of caregiving, the beauty of the natural world, and the shifting rhythms of love and time. These poems move between personal experience and wider reflections, exploring the ways we hold on, let go, and try to find meaning amid change. Here, time bends—sometimes it freezes, sometimes it flows like the tide—while memory and presence intertwine. 


This collection is an invitation to witness those fragments of life that often go unnoticed, to feel the weight of silence and the warmth of connection, and to walk alongside the poet as he navigates the complex landscape of care, nature, and resilience. 


Welcome to A Spot in Time. May these poems offer you space to pause, reflect, and find your own moments of grace.

Extracts from the book:


Pencils


My redundant pencils, 

silent, 

as though waiting for a summons 

I have not given. 

Dust softens their yellow skin 

eraser ends stiff with age. 


The desk holds them still— 

furniture older than my adulthood, 

its scars of childhood gouges 

and the dull brass handles 

that once shone in afternoon sun.


I think of the child who sat here, 

leaning over paper, 

discovering that graphite could be gentle, 

could be fierce, 

that 2B was best for shading shadows 

where the light slipped away.


Now I take photographs, 

and write 

fast, glowing on a phone, 

but the pencils keep their silence, 

their patience, 

their promise of another kind of looking, 

slower, 

less certain, 

but closer to the truth of touch.


Will I return? 

Or are they relics, 

like the pastel boxes bound by rubber, 

objects of faith 

in an earlier self?


The desk, 

faded, 

remembers either way.


~


Monday


It’s Monday morning 

and I’m driving to work, 

mind somewhere else. 

The windscreen’s sticky— 

sap from the trees above the 

car at home— 

I should clean it 

but it just smears, 

and I haven’t slept.


It’s 7:10.


I can still see 

the ghost of my dad 

walking 

at the bottom 

of Breary Lane.


Old song on the radio—


I know it, 

it seeps into the commute 


Dad is 

On the way 

to buy a Yorkshire Post, 

cloth cap 

slightly askew. 

Always that cap.


Old man, take a look at my life 

I’m a lot like you were.


I catch him 

in the wing mirror— 

shirt and tie, 

that familiar waddle. 

Strange— 

I never wear a tie.


Never have. 

Not out of principle, 

just sheer bloody 

mindlessness.


I need someone to love me 

the whole day through


Head down, 

determined 

to beat the newsagent, 

never had it delivered, 

not until the end of Bramhope.


He’d try to slip away 

and wander, 

always trying to get back 

to a house 

from years ago— 

some version of home.


I’ve been first and last 

Look at how the time goes past


And I drive on, 

leaving him 

in the rearview blur.


~



August Ride


A pigeon 

beside the salt pile — 

a mountainscape in miniature, 

untouched for years, 

still waiting for frost.


But it is August, 

warm at seven, 

the air fresh and clear. 

An owl hoots in a hidden tree 

crows gather, a black argument 

in the nearby copse


The salt heaps 

seem to ask for climbers, 

a team of tiny mountaineers 

roping upward through 

grass already yellowing, 

earth thirsty for rain.


A tractor grumbles past. 

The hooded driver, 

seems bound for harvest 

or something darker


On his back, a scythe: 

not the farmer’s tool, 

but ominous presence of time, 

the sickle of endings, 

glinting even in this early sun.


The fields bow before him, 

crows scatter, 

and I pedal on, 

thinking I might climb 

the white frost salt mountains, 

to look down on this season 

and remember the cold.


But the leaves are already 

turning, 

fruit heavy on the branches, 

acorns scatter like coins, 

and time feels broken, 

running ahead of itself.


Everything is early. 

The hooded man rides on. 

Winter waits, 

dark and certain. 

What we need now 

are tears of rain — 

to soften the earth, 

to mourn the hot summer, 

to slow this hurry of the 

seasons


~



The Older I Get 


The older I get, 

the deeper the love I need—


not louder, 

not wilder, 

but steadier, 

more certain, 

like the ground beneath my feet, 

or silence after a long day.


When health warnings come— 

not always loudly, 

but sometimes in a whisper, 

a shadow at my heels— 

I don’t long for noise, 

but for hands that know how to hold, 

for eyes that listen 

when no words are said.


At rest, 

I don’t crave fireworks or applause, 

only the quiet breathing beside me, 

a presence that asks nothing, 

yet offers everything.


But mostly, 

it is this: 

arriving home, 

placing my keys on the table, 

feeling the wear in my thoughts, 

and knowing— that love is here.


Not the love of youth, 

all heat and hunger, 

but a quieter flame— 

tending the stove in winter 

steeping mint tea, 

filling the silence.


The older I get, 

the deeper the love I need.


~


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.


~



Inheritance


I’m rubbing 

my hands again — 

some insect’s bitten me, 

I think. 

It itches.


It was a Dad thing, 

the way he rubbed his hands — 

absently, endlessly — 

a flicker of routine 

in a world unfastening.


I thought it was 

repetitive behaviour 

or just 

old age.


It’s strangely 

soothing 

and disturbing.


Now I feel it 

under my own skin: 

that ritual, 

that need 

to soothe 

something unseen.


I look down — 

liver spots bloom 

like small bruises.


My hands 

have become his.


~


ABOUT TIM

Tim Boardman is a poet based in West Yorkshire whose work explores the quiet beauty of everyday life, the shifting landscapes of the North, and the complexities of human connection. Drawing inspiration from nature, memory, and local heritage, his poems are both grounded and lyrical, often balancing emotional honesty with wry observation. His writing has been featured in local readings, community arts projects, and online literary platforms. Tim’s commitment to accessible, resonant poetry has made him a distinctive voice within the regional arts scene. 


Contact:

FB: http://facebook.com/groups/588235645977509 

Instagram: @timboardmanpoet


Order a copy:

To order a copy, contact Tim directly by email at: allsuchthings@icloud.com
Price: £5 (GBP) plus postage.