Featured

First Light

A Petrol sky etched with pinkish hue;
The muffled cockerel cry;
A hazy outline of moorland ridge;
The first calls of a thrush imbue.

Recumbent cows with their faces alight;
Shards from the eastern sun;
A lone calf wanders, stirring the herd;
Sharp cry of a blackbird in flight.

Conspicuous by its reddish form,
A deer runs back and forth.
Green juxtaposed against the golden grass
The hedge-lined fields adorn.

A gifted morning, a savoured treat
So often going unseen;
A hidden world- a rhythmic pattern;
Apposed lives chancing to meet. 

Ruth Partridge

When Morning Comes Slowly

A dog barks
Before true light;
A greyish blue of nothing; 
A peppering of rain on the glass;
The soughing wind
And familiar rattling of the slates
Signals of the day ahead.


A fragile beauty in the a single  note of 
Birdsong…
Muffled but true.
But no answer given.

Battleship grey
Of micaceous haematite,
The sky’s hue lightens
Through the mist
The birds stay silent
The wind is stilled
The drizzle has no sound

The world is waiting
The morning is slow to come 
And so we wander through winter.





Night Manager

The outline of the giant’s back
Outlines the
Southern moor
The first charcoal line of
Landscape drawn
Separation of land and sky;
Feint is the contrast; 
Though a glow,flanks the far western edge
Illumination   
From a sleeping suburban sprawl 
Seen only on the darkest of nights. 
Defining so many shades of grey
That draws the eye.


The stillness has depth
And is rare upon our ridge,
Affording privilege at this hour 
To be 
With
Solitude and perception
Tracing each contour etched across the uplands;

A tiny pinprick of light marks a moorland farm
No lights above, though occasionally there are
Walkers who seek out the beacon
For its grandeur and solitude
Tonight it’s in solemnity
Only 
A nighttime freight train
Rumbles round the contour 
Its sound amplified when all else is stilled
Like the breath of the giant itself.
To observe is to be;
To be is contentment…
To be with…

The night manager.

Winter’s Vice

In silent stance the ice holds still,
Branches stilled; 
Spiked shards fringe each bough
in pearlescent white;
Stiff snow cloaks mounds of earth,
Each bearing tiny crested  peaks 
and troughs defined by rivulets of soil;
There’s a crunch beneath one’s feet:
A footprint left,
Of others too;
Angular crossings over the land-
Journeys made visible
For all to see;
A scent pervades in the the stillness of  air;
Drawing everything to winter’s vice.

Wolf Moon

Wandering through Winter 
I think I can almost hear the wolf’s haunting cry
Aside the baleful cows’ lament
From the shaft of light 
On the old barn roof.

The break of dawn aglow
Lights the moorland ridge
A soft yellow shimmers on the crest
And yet I do not see;
The sky a  shimmering teal 
A tease of fantasy or tale.

I lie and watch the dawn unfold
With twisted narrative
To imagination drawn.

Ode to the Blackbird

A truer sound there’s none
Than the blackbird’s call
Cutting through the still air
Of dawn. 
So pleased to see our migrant bird
Appear 
We’ve missed the familiar 
Black gloved thrush 
A few miles ago
As south in search of food they fly. 
Who might our visitor be?
He does not say,
Save that I hope
He’s a Swede or even Finn
Drawn from the cold north winds
To our South Western stream. 
Reassurance to know
Despite the mildness of our climate change 
The continuity is present
In this quintessential bird.

Renewal

Today,after a very foggy start to the day, my Painting For Mindfulness Group explored the theme of renewal looking at leaves through Neurographic art.

The bubbles represent water on the leaves – decay to new life through replenishment of the earth .

Autumn wraps itself around the house 
In a blanket of white
Holding it tight 
Punctuated by the robin’s hallowed voice
Too bright;

Fallen leaves
In patterned flight 
Press into the porcelain tiled floor 
Imprint 
And cling for life;
 
Spangled leaves of orange and lime 
Lie on the alter of  grass
In sacrifice
From day to night
Stolen light;
 
Stripped branches 
Fringed in fingered form 
Semi- clothed in muted hue
Nature’s plight
A poignant sight;
  
Through sinking air 
Energies drawn to the wet ground
Ignite 
Out of sight        
Renewal of the earth
In silent fight  
Spears decay to life.

Their Space, Our Space

Where we live 
Borrowed views 
Stretch  the imagination;
The thread of the lane over the hill, 
The upland ridge 
Or blanket of moorland fog;
Always aware of our windswept ride 
And the light of the Western sky. 

Unique 
Is the position of our home;
Though once those ancient stones 
Yielded 
No view,
Sparing the inhabitants 
Of the prevailing wind
That tunnels  though  ancient walls,
Rattling the roofs, 
Chanelling the rain through
The lightest of soils, 
Through to the slate beneath;
Aware, but sheltered from a windswept ride 
And the light of the Western sky. 
 
And our nearest 
Neighbours
(those who share our postcode)
See
It differently:
 
A patchwork  of fields,
Glimpsed
Through the hedge,
Flatter land,
Fields of Green,
Aware but hidden from our 
Windswept ride 
And the light of the Western sky 


Then there’s the lodge-
Reminder of finer things;
It breathes with the trees,
Enveloped  in beech
Cocooned by oak. 
  
Unaware of our 
Windswept ride
And the light of the  Western sky

And there’s a manor,
Though you’d never know; 
No signage
And Hidden from view 
In a dip;
Formality of planting
An ordered view 
An arboretum
Of plantsman’s finds;
Unaware of our 
Windswept ride
and the  light of the Western sky. 

And down to the village
Off the ridge
Into the Saxon wheel;
Moorland views
Of different kind
Deep valleys,
Deep ford,  
Sunsets 
Turneresque 
Under our  hill 
Aware of the windswept ride
And the light of the Western sky.  


We all live 
In the same place-
Geographically at least;
But each sees it 
Differently,
Determined by aspect.


Unique is our space 
Our own patch of ground
Open or sheltered
Our canopy 
Of sky.

Their space, 
Our space: 
Same but different,
All under  an Eastern and Western sky.