Vanessa's work includes small specialist collections on the Iraq and Syrian wars.
She has reconstructed a collection of La Fontaine's fables to make them easily accessible to adult learner readers.
 She has written a collection of verses to stimulate those who would love to write a poem. 
​For many years she contributed to the Chesil magazine, covering a readership in the surrounding villages, producing a monthly poem together with a piece suggesting its local relevance. 
Her general body of work is considerable and covers a wide range of topics. A few examples follow here.

Picture
NIGHT SHIFT

It is the black magic of evening

water drizzling over the strand.

The tide is turning, slack.

Servant to the moon, she spills

a last teaspoon of froth

on the glittering, ribby sand

and withdraws into the darkness.

Out in the depths, the sleeper turns.

He is reaching his magic hour

floating nowhere in his sailing boat

of calm. 

He heaves his body over on his

dimpled, dumpy mattress, manning

his craft with little puffs

of warm air.

The log book lies open and unwritten

in the comfort of darkness.

His narrative is unheard. 

Story is on pause: the tea things

lie idle and askew on the tray.

The bed and its occupant

became one long ago: weightless

and wonderful they travel in the

ocean of night.  Untrammelled

they filter the surrounding water

where strange fragments combine.

Caught by the searching moon, they pick up

her transmitting message of time.

Odd facets from their wanderings

glint back shining. 

They send their compliance, and dissolve.

Waves of water and time harness white horses

with their bridles of day.  While

all is put in order in preparation for

the morning breakfast tray.  
THE  CARGO  

 Distant in the ocean mist

a shadow in the bay,

where yesterday a sunbeam kissed,

 a darkened cargo lay.

Heavy in an iron sea

where no small wavelet  lapped,

a darkened cargo solitary,

in snow cold cloud was wrapped.

Just one lantern hung aloft.

It shone through bitter air.

Far from friendly farm or croft,

it showed its presence there.

Then in the early light of dawn,

as early cobwebs spun

I searched for where the cargo lay;

I’d heard a ship’s bell rung.

But there was nothing

only waves, out in the morning sun.




LE SACRE COEUR

Wilde, Oscar (1854-1900)

Wilde: Irish born and Irish died,

to London’s great museum applied.

His ticket duly granted, he wrote

inside that wondrous room

reading profusely: deeply, wide.

In august company sat he,

with those, who lettered and inspired,

would put the working word to multiply

when leavened by the hungry eye:

as loaves and fishes did,

so long ago,

beneath a Palestinian sky.

Yet in the fashion of denial,

after that fatal libel trial,

his ticket was withdrawn;

his name removed: it was cut up, and torn.

By judge and jury had he not been tried?

His writer’s heart was crucified.

Not for him the Reading Room.

No cares his death would follow soon.

Irish born, and Irish died,
TO A PORTRAIT ON THE WALL

 My father, how I love you,

My father, I love you so.

There is a place for passing

Among wild primroses

I cannot tell you, now -

But I will join you there –

In Osmington. I remain

Your Elisabeth Anne.




POLITIC

Mice in the attic

Cats under the bed

Put them together

And all would be said



ANTIDOTE TO DESPONDENCY

What can a man do?

I saw what one man can do

With one hand lift a portaloo

And with equipment called McFaddon

Drop it on the Tarmacadam

Then with the ease of an Aladdin

Open up a portacabin

Go inside and have a look

Then hang the whole thing on a hook

Dangling as if on display

He took the whole damn thing away

Folding his yellow crane up neatly

He had cleared the place completely

Jumped into the driver’s seat

And had a kitkat for a treat!