A ribbon of silkDrapes the foldsOf moorland slopesBreathtaking is a magenta glowEnding a day of gold. Because we face West and sit on the 300m contour, some of our sunsets are simply breathtaking.
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And so the Dragon sleeps
The dragon sleeps at set of sun Its silhouette outstretchedAgainst the moorland ridgeBurnt orange, smoked and flecked In fiery glowThis dragon’s breath That stills the eveningEnchants the airNo sword be drawn But rest.
Waiting for Rain
The night is darkUnusually so Gone are the meteorites The great celestial showThe fireworks of the skyThere are no stars Instead in stillnessJust a breath of wind Wafts through the open windowA welcome coolnessOn a summer’s night The distant clatter of a train Over Aish crossingPunctuates the intervalsUnder the cloud The silence seems poisedWe areContinue reading “Waiting for Rain”
Small Voice
While darkness shroudsThoughts are stirredDrifting in the subconscious Across the cerebral cortexOf fractured sleep;Awakened by silenceIt sates the soul;The world is stilled:It wears grey like a cloak.How vast it seemsWhen all is quiet;My voice,so small Within it.And as I write,A haunting soundMirrors my human’s Outward breath; A tawny owlCalls As the sky turns To petrolContinue reading “Small Voice”
Old Tool… New Tool
The feel of old woodRounded in my handThe weighted balanceOf an ancient tool From one hand long gonePlaced into mine A secret story keeperHolds its storyFor now it’s mine . £14 well spent at Ashridge Court Wood Fair. I’m a bit obsessive about my tool collection- all are in use, but I wash , dryContinue reading “Old Tool… New Tool”
Over 800 Years
Uneven and hard The path to our church Difficult to navigate Tricky when wet But have you considered the value it holds?For these stones hold the truths of the stories of old.The path to the church built on the rockOver those years countless people have trod Rich and poor Young and old Skilled labourers andContinue reading “Over 800 Years”
Lost
Well oiled I can almost smell the linseed;I can almost feel it-The weight of rounded well- worn woodMoulded to my hand…The grip of her hand-Her hand in mine. The stories it carries,One generation to another,Or do I say carried?I look and lookDeeper in the ground I go;We come from the ground-we return to the ground;It’sContinue reading “Lost”
When Morning Comes Slowly
A dog barksBefore true light;A greyish blue of nothing; A peppering of rain on the glass;The soughing windAnd familiar rattling of the slatesSignals of the day ahead.A fragile beauty in the a single note of Birdsong…Muffled but true.But no answer given.Battleship greyOf micaceous haematite,The sky’s hue lightensThrough the mistThe birds stay silentThe wind is stilledTheContinue reading “When Morning Comes Slowly”
Night Manager
The outline of the giant’s backOutlines theSouthern moorThe first charcoal line ofLandscape drawnSeparation of land and sky;Feint is the contrast; Though a glow,flanks the far western edgeIllumination From a sleeping suburban sprawl Seen only on the darkest of nights. Defining so many shades of greyThat draws the eye.The stillness has depthAnd is rare upon ourContinue reading “Night Manager”
Whippet Wisdom
breathing the air immersed in sight and sound a good day
