Pam Stocker

Counsellor. Artist. Poet.

Welcome! I am a counsellor, artist and poet based in Uppingham, Rutland.

For me, poetry, art, and the therapeutic process are all ways of exploring and celebrating the long, slow journey towards human flourishing.  

I am passionate about human identity, growth and healing. I believe that counselling has huge potential to facilitate personal development and wholeness: it can help safeguard important relationships and bring change out of stuck situations, enabling people to live more authentically and vibrantly.

The creative arts are very important to me, both personally and professionally. A poet and artist, I explore and express what I think or feel through words and images. I originally trained as a dancer and this has informed my understanding of the role of the body in psychological growth and change. I enjoy using creative methods in the counselling room, including clay, paint and poetry. In the words of one of my poems, 'silence is a sad way home,’ so I dare to share what I have to say with you here. 

My poems explore life and loss, the joy of being alive and the rhythms of the seasons. Often I find myself writing about daring to have a voice. The starting point is frequently something I notice, a sense of connection between the natural world and human life. A dead leaf in summer and mortality. A dalmatian jumping into a pond spotted with rain drops. Noticing shadows tattooed across daisy petals before going back to work at my desk. Bubbles at the tide’s edge and wanting to dance. Some poems are written with other people in mind.  Sometimes they grow out of my own experience. Sometimes I’m not sure where they come from.


Slow Day Dawning

I will wait as the birds in you take flight
I will wait as you say farewell to night

Early cars seer the silence, planes paint lines across the sky
Your wings no longer clipped, I set you free to fly

Sky purples, gold gathers, grey clouds shift
Sheep watch motionless, poised in morning mist

Fields lighten in folds of fading blue
Set the sky singing with the song in you

Glory burns too bright for me to see
Come, come, my daughter, dare with me 

I will wait in this slow day dawning
Now! Now it is morning!


The Search For Order

Some people like boxes, 
with corners, locks and lids that shut
keeping things contained.

Some people like files 
all labelled, ordered, tidy, clear
keeping things restrained.

Some people like paper in gathering piles
looking like muddle, looking like mess. 
It gives them freedom, chances to digress.
Stepping in spaces across the floor
always the promise of something more. 

And I? 
I’ve no answers to your questions just today.

I’m off to play 
watching sunshine drawing jungle shadows on the leaves of daisies, 
painting stripes across their brightly-coloured faces.




Black and white puppy launches into a pool
pocked black with rain under a white sky,
white sun a circle blazing faintly in the leeched-out light.

Suddenly I see the world is spotted.
Mushrooms on the forest path, 
light caught in disks of wet leaves 

saucers of bright on dark; 
birch barkfreckled, black on light; 
rain on coatsleevesstar-speckled night.

Pointillist, I even hear in pixels 
raindrops beat a dot-dot-dot tattoo,
insistent drum, pianissimo.


Glory be!




The tin-tack rattle of a single leaf,
emblematic of the year’s end,
fallen in high summer.
Why, the oak wood’s greeny billows
have scarcely faded,
spring’s ochres, limes and yellows
were only weeks ago.
This is too soon for winter
and the long dark.


Watching You Dance

A girl, lithe and slender, tiptoe and tender,
picks her way, careful, at the edge of the tide
a delicate dance along the lace border,
boundary of bubbles, hem of the skirt of the sea.

Her dance takes up the roar of distant breakers
plunging to shore. To an unheard beat, her feet
weave a wild tapestry of heel and toe,
wet skirts swirling. Abandoned, exultant, free— 
and unaware of me.



not cause and neat effect, 
not geometric stages 
not progress on a predetermined path 
not sudden rectilinear love or death
not measured sudden rages
not calculated turning of my life’s so finite pages

am not confined, no, nor am asked to be

instead the double helix swirl of DNA
like sunset splash of paint against the sky
spring willows weeping down the wind 
a gauze of green, and ash seeds twirling
winding stream, and swallows swirling
and thistle silk adrift upon ten thousand paths of air

you only ask that I should see 
and recognise you beautiful and fair
and understand that I have heard you calling 
in a thousand autumns in their golden leafy falling 
and with your quiet gaze upon me
know that I am seen, yet choose to stay

no, I am not confined, 
no, nor am asked to be
am free


Copyright © 2013 Pam Stocker. All rights reserved.