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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

Waiting for Rain






The night is dark
Unusually so 
Gone are the meteorites 
The great celestial show
The fireworks of the sky
There are no stars 
Instead  in stillness
Just a breath of wind 
Wafts through the open window
A welcome coolness
On a summer’s night 
The distant clatter of a train 
Over Aish crossing
Punctuates the intervals
Under the cloud 
The silence seems poised
We are waiting for rain 
Will it come?
 


	


	





	

		
Small Voice
	


	
	

		

While darkness shrouds
Thoughts are stirred
Drifting  in the subconscious 
Across the cerebral cortex
Of fractured sleep;

Awakened by silence
It sates the soul;

The world is stilled:
It wears grey like a cloak.
How vast it seems
When all is quiet;
My voice,so small 
Within it.

And as I write,
A haunting sound
Mirrors my human’s 
Outward breath; 
A tawny owl
Calls 
As the sky turns 
To petrol blue 
A blackbird cries
And then it stops-
Mid sentence   
Like a punctuation mark.

Again the  world is stilled
How privileged am I 
To hear it?
When all is quiet
My voice so small 
Within it.











	


	





	

		
Old Tool… New Tool
	


	
	

		

The feel of old wood
Rounded in my hand
The weighted balance
Of an ancient tool  
From one hand long gone
Placed into mine 
A secret story keeper
Holds its story
For 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 , dry and oil them after use. 





There is something innately satisfying about using old hand tools in the garden. The fact that as I use them I’m in touch with a far bigger story. 






	


	





	

		
Over 800 Years
	


	
	

		

St Mary the Virgin Diptford 800 Years old 1226-2026





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 rock
Over those years countless people have trod 
Rich and poor 
Young and old 
Skilled labourers and farmers
Even those seeking gold!
From quarrymen to service 
Even scientists were told
All drawn from the land
And now part of God’s plan.

This is our church 
800 years old 
Held in these walls a story enfolds
Pilgrims through centuries drawn through the ages
We come together to write the new pages
Held in faith by God above 
Let’s celebrate His faithfulness and infinite love.

Traditions may have changed 
The church started small 
Yet grew through the ages to accommodate all
Through monarchs and battles 
Peacetime and strife 
It has stood as a focus of our village life 
Bringing people together as we gather today 
Together in faith to love and to pray.

This is our church 
800 years young 
Held in these walls your story begun
Pilgrims through centuries drawn through the ages
We’ll come together to write the new pages
Held in faith by God above
Let’s celebrate His  goodness and infinite love. 





It was a real privilege to have been asked to read this at the centenary service and again at the concert of the Exeter Philharmonic Choir, Pilgrims’ Chorus .










And my picture made into cards and tea towels ! A crazy month – Diptford Village open Gardens , the Bishop of Exeter’s Visit and concert . 






	


	





	

		
Lost
	


	
	

		

 

Well oiled 
I can almost smell the linseed;
I can almost feel it-
The weight of rounded well- worn wood
Moulded 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 look
Deeper in the ground I go;
We come from the ground-
we return to the ground;
It’s there somewhere 
Just out of sight,
Just as she is
It’s lost so I’m lost
Without it.










Two weeks I’ve searched for this little fork. All my tools hang well- oiled.I always put them back or put them in the greenhouse, but perhaps that day I did one more job. This fork is special as it is one of a collection of my mother’s tools. 





I gardened that day at my friend’s, counted my tools back into the car as I finished, just as I always do each week. I took the trug of tools back to the greenhouse. I was out early the next morning planting out sweet peas and used the trowel . I thought the fork was beside it – when I went for the fork, it was not there . And so two weeks of searching the border, all of which had been recently mulched . Alas it’s not turned up.I can’t blame anyone – it’s so frustrating! 










Found it after so long and after purchasing a second hand one of identical make , yet I am so pleased and no longer lost! 

	


	





	

		
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.