I only started writing in May , but have come to love the expression of poetry as an artistic way of recording observations. I love the big skies, the light on the land and sea: I love to be outside with freedom to think aloud . These ramblings and musings all come under copywrite of my own hand unless sited otherwise.
Pack Cells With Joy
Pack your cells with joy Strip off all of winter’s sloth Embrace the new day Celebrate the patch of blue Breathe deep and embrace the light.
Interlude
Squall and bludgeoning relent Blackened end to winter’s claw Naked trees claim dignity Somber skies,some respite bring Birds loud, in haste,intensify As clouds reform on western fringe Unite a social call.
In the Roar of the Gale
Filigreed tips of naked branches Strain Against the roar of the gale; A solitary crow- in futile flight- Relinquishes its path Carried by the current On a different plane; Carrying the ghostly Conversations of ancient miners Who trudged this route In twilight hours As darkness and grey mist Descend Deep into the sunken lane Where carpets of spongy moss creep Over sodden branches and roots; And dripping ferns plug every gap. Pot -hole riven, The single track is stretched in girth and lined in running orange stain Of tractor tread, Leaching from the ancient banks Punctuated only by gateways Splayed wide open Straining on the hinges That hold them.
Who Really Knows me ?
Thoughts and entanglements from the limits of my mind Within in the cerebral cortex; Fissured and deep The folded contours The map of my life In laminar flow across Hemispheres; Woven, those gossamer threads, Tangled wires of emotion, Beads Of thought Which link us to places Long buried; When awakened, they Resurface, fragmented From the hidden depths. Each of us carries The map of our lives On our skin In the way that we move In the people we meet. Recognisable Of that inner cognition? Or refined and guarded A manicured exterior? The mirror’s reflection, Intricately complicated, So I hardly know myself, And yet in One I am fully known For we are beautifully and Wonderfully made.
Estuary
I turned my face to the sweeping sky And the breeze drawn by the Eddying current; I traced the snaking curve Of the channel; I watched the light play on The mirrored surfaces- Tiny rivulets spread like fingers In the mud, As Sandpipers picked their way With bobbing heads; Their matchstick legs, Angular and straight; And beyond,a flock of avocets, Their curved beaks Stabbing like needles; And wondered if their collective Gathering was convivial; Two geese nonchalantly grazed, Comfortable together; I looked across to ancestral roots And connected to The view its beauty dawned.
Winter’s Vice
An insurmountable deluge of rain, The dullest of days, The coldest wind As Earth,its struggle with winter In vice is held tight; Even the snowdrops their Heads nod low, The ferns still resolutely furled, Fragile leaves languid curled Comatose from frozen state; All warmth squeezed out of These ancient stone walls And dampness seeps.
Day to Night from the Window
With stealth the darkness creeps And seals the day With hardly a difference of Day from night; Ink black rooks From their roost Take flight, Circle, then return to the Same bare branches Silhouetted against The soot grey sky; Wintery sleet Falls; The cold seeps Through every gap; Even the log fire Struggles in the grate; There is no wind Just empty blackness.
Hope Love and Rainbows There’s always hope If we’re brave enough to Feel it; Light if we open our eyes To reveal it; Love if we allow our hearts To receive it And tears (enough to fill the sea) To prove it. Jewels in plenty to redeem Life in all abundance awaits But patience awards Those who wisdom have With knowledge that We are not alone. Together we press on. Remembering the rainbow In the sky.A Winter Paradox A latent sun Which late had risen Seeping through the mist Dissipated and weak in appreciation An embodiment Of apologetic proportion Lack lustre in warmth Through which a murmuration Of starlings flew In laminar flow across The far western sky In mesmerising contorted pattern Theatrical synchronisation Above the Slapton Line.
Photo by Hazel Strange I dream in Silver In monochrome Winter depths In haunting monotonous roar Of the winter wind I dream Of the soughing trees Their naked form With fingered branches Protesting as they are Bent low And rain hammers down On iron clad ground Like sparks from The farrier’s steel On anvil Made as Headlamps light The dark road ahead A sparkling thread Perchance I dream In silver. Hoare Frost
Photo by Phil Starky Through feathered leaves,sutured needles, Icy spines Under the astral sky, Dark fingers charm; Crystals, thick which interlock, Breathe superstition Into the night of Supersaturated air; The silhouette is manifest; It’s stature changed, Transformed to supernatural Spectral state. Earth lays Down her Mantle Gripped within the jaws of bitter cold; Betwixt the Equinox of Winter and of Spring; When Earth her mantle, In frozen form lays down And leaden skies move across eastern soil ; The wind,afresh, torments The slender trees; The door it rattles And the signal comes; Steeled ,the weathervane turns anew; Precariously, it points to unknown sights The garden,hauntingly now is stilled; The high banks,protection graciously afford; The earth awaits the snow that still may come Reminding that winter’s chains are nailed and riven.
Under an English Sky In laminar flow the colours, Kaleidoscopic move Across the moorland ridge; Burnished bronze And a torrid haze of straw Unites with cooler greens As the leaden clouds give way To patches of powder blue And the world really does Awaken to the promise Under an English Sky.
View from the bedroom window The Difference in one Day Beguiled by beauty The transient winter’s morn With hint of white streaked Across a cyan sky The palette of the hedgerow Swapped for lichen covered Moorland rocks And sweeping views Candescent rise From aloft the mighty Granite tors. Air to breathe The warmth of sun Respite from rain.
Frost at Dawn Uncertain, That time between shaded Dawn and morning, Nature, In frailty of perfection; Earth lays down on frosted ground Stillness and clarity To seduce the mind On distant views Just out of bounds Though view,restriction cannot hold Unchained It serves to sate the soul; Transient it embraces Ephemeral white and laced Before transfigured it Resumes its green stained hue. Under a latent sun. Lighthouse The strength of the beam Casts out darkness 25 miles the light is cast Reassurance for those at sea Enduring constancy for us at home.
Start Point Dark Clouds Dark clouds are the question But what of the answer? Into the unknown In fear and sadness In isolation and incertitude Overwhelmed by events Beyond our control We are falling Moving in different directions Yet the world still spins In certainty In smooth rotation To look ahead is to look above In One who order out of chaos brought And place our trust.
Winter Walk
A pale wintery light floods the bare furrows As earth drops her mantle Laid bare to North Eastern winds Dark fingered branches Frame the scene And steal the unexpected glow Locking secrets beneath their bows Protection offered In elemental fusion As dry pine needles crunch beneath our boots We skim the forest edge Deliberately To keep the light And security of forest depths Deep in thought Until we turn for home And into the raw wind that rattles The towering pines Redemptive and free.
If Ever there was a Robin
photograph by K Shuttleworth
If Ever there was a Robin A well- rounded Robin if ever I did see Strong and confident Insulated with down And astride the bushes a beacon be Of hope in times as these. Driving Home A marauding sky creeps over the skyline Dramatising the moorland ridge; Silver- fingered branches Steal the show As their naked forms Stand sentinel on the banks; The moss - green of the holly Boasts proudly against the Impending darkness; Sharply focused The eye is drawn To the silver lane snaking the homeward mile As the moor vanishes Blotted out And heavy drops Land on the windscreen Dispersing sideways. And the rhythmic beating Begins. Beyond the Blackened Pane Beyond the blackened pane Winter’s grip is strengthened Through fingered stealth An iron clad armour Drawn across the land I feel its cunning- The fire burns more brightly In the grate, A deeper red To its core; The heaviness of night Is carried Only the setting moon with painted halo Peeps between the fluted clouds To break the steel; And our star From black to indigo Intensely builds the dawn. Yuletide Sleep When against earth a wooden heel Hammers aloud as stone on steel; When the Yuletide days of light Seem most indifferent to that of night; When the wind pounds, rattling the pane And the sky relinquishes its frozen rain; When stripped,the trees, seize ghostly forms Standing sentinel on the lawn; When bare stained fields harden at last Iron-flawed cracks from ice are cast; When the earth is tired, worn,cross and old Oh to hunker down out of the cold!
Artist Jessica Boehman Snowwolfs Woodland Nook I dream Like a Child I dream of clouds - Those castles in the sky; Wide open spaces and sloping meadows Rich with summer flowers Of a picnic beside a babbling brook Of painted landscapes - pastoral scenes I dream of looking up into the endless blue At the vapour trail of a jet up high I want to dream like a child Because to dream is to hope And hope keeps us strong. And ...we’re past the shortest day!
The Solstice meets Advent The last solstice of the year Obsidian and bleak The fog all consuming Dense and rain -clad Droplets running down the glass Channelled down. The celestial ‘Christmas Star’ Of this millennium Obscured And hidden Announcing the advent of Christmas Also eclipsed by The bleakest of news Borders closed Nowhere to go Tiers of restriction Mirroring That real story Two thousand years ago When everything was closed Everything tricky And Heaven came down to Earth. Reflection on Advent Visitors bring their esoteric truths; Friends their empathy’s are quickly shared; Not one,but many, think by chance a country so could run. What of these problems Of the year? Maudlin talk from television screen Broadcast hourly into every home; When lockdown lifts this time tomorrow New tiers to grasp Wrangling in every sphere; Oh to leave the record that is spun To head outside into quiet stillness there; To feel my feet on sodden winter soil; The natural degradation of the year; The rhythms that propel us through the seasons By one who order out of chaos formed. To Him we wait in patient expectation His advent how we need it so much more.
First Sunday in Advent Mist low in the valley Hangs As the sun cuts through; The cold Burns as the stride breaks Molecular strands; The breath is cut short As feet pass Sheep which stationary Lie In quiet contemplation make Silver of advent dew sparkles In drifts of white The damp tarmac glistens A royal pathway In clouds descending.
From darkness to Light Let the light glow Into the obsidian Turn one grey pebble Open the book and turn The page Rule a clean line Start a new day. Islands of Existence Like an island chain- An archipelago Are we islands of existence? Do our minds separate- Compartmentalise? Hold onto secrets of the past Sailing to when we’re adrift? Memories we return to Like favoured holidays past? Ferry crossings back and forth Until we leave for good? Or strands we take with us on our journey; Connections, patterns,identities Drawn through time and space Threads of gossamer tracing the stars In laminar flow; Those we love Those we meet Those we pass A twinkling light A warning flare Perchance we cross Or is it so? The chart etched out in perfect ordinance Each choice is ours Each decision Freely given To navigate those paths With love.
A walk along the Shoreline A walk along the broken shoreline; The ragged waves crash against the rise; Wind and rain drive Near horizontal; The spray is mixed with mist Along the line. The grey sea ever deepens in its movement The sky sinks closer to it still; The noise grinds relentless in the union; Spirits are lifted higher than before.
Woodland in Splendour Branches- pendulous and jewelled- Leaf dots of orange and yellow, Stippled against silvery papered Slender trunks; The birch- a key player on the woodland edge; Along the track we Descend steeply into The dense forest- Alight with fiery glow Above the wide smooth trunks of beech; A kaleidoscope of colour- Ambers and tortoiseshell- Vintage greens and golds Knit the canopy above Like fairy lights; Dense Holly Statuesque below Holds bright berries above Glossy leaves The woodland floor Is carpeted by a Deep dry fallen leaves Bright limed fronds of ferns and moss Cling to the forest banks The purple smudges of whortleberries Are long gone Glimpsed through broken foliage Filigreed fingers Across the valley Where Bare trees Naked Line the ridge Their form with distinct shapes Textbook drawn. Woodland in splendour.
Footsteps without words The eye is drawn To capture The broad sky Soft haze of the shoreline The filtered light The beauty Of defined grandeur. The ear is drawn To rhythmic motion Sounds without calls Powerful and resolute The heart is drawn To footsteps without words. Be still my soul.
Ayrmer Cove South Devon Light on a Stormy Sea Softly filtered light Shines through the Spume filled air Waves toss the flurries Into sheltered coves Funnelling foam upwards Like snowflakes To the tops of cliffs Above the noise of the sea Nothing can be heard As waves thunder and pound With every ebb and flow In mesmerising movement The camera fails to catch The churning of the sea The call of the tide The retreat of the waves Just beauty of the scene A moment of serenity Amidst the storm. This bleak Day Rain greases the pane A steady sound on the roof glass It’s not yet light Yet the day ahead feels bleak A day clearing my father’s house Same pattern; same house That overwhelming feeling Stealthily creeps into the grey hours It’s a job to be done. That’s my mantra. Slow traffic and misted windscreens Moving in time to the radio beat. Was it ‘72 or ‘74? The quiz goes on Traffic at a standstill somewhere On the M5. Once stuck in,the hours dissipate Time is measured by trips to the tip The bin bags we’ve filled Inch by inch a room is cleared Memories charged Then lives erased Leaving no trace Swallowed in black plastic Ironical really For a family that tried to use less Here is more Fifty years to recycle To Landfill Guilt merges with forgiveness The house is released. It fees redemptive. Until we go again. The rain intensifies It’s still dark. Look for me by Moonlight The paper- white moon Paper thin Hangs in the powder blue sky A clean saucer with Milky white edge Due East Against a sky to the West Alight with evening glow Ghostly grey shapes rise South West Cauliflower topped rising to steep anvils Flame -laced as singed by blacksmith’s forge Like galleons broadside for battle Clear silhouettes of Naked trees Behind which the moon now rises ‘The road ‘is’ a ribbon of moonlight’ Words loved and familiar come to the fore Tonight the owl will fly It’s call will be sharp in the October air Highwaymen still may ride The light will see them home.
I wrote this poem 'The last Weeks' starting three weeks before my father's death on Dec 9. He was drawn to the rhythms, seasons and patterns of the natural world and always was astutely conscious of the weather forecast. In the Last Weeks there are poignant anecdotes pertaining to observations - he had been in a nursing- home bed, for one whole year. This is a tribute to him. The Last Weeks That day the sun didn’t shine A voice was not heard One star left the sky The tap didn’t flow A cup was left standing Clothes on the chair Leaves dropped to the ground Littered the floor Crumpled and worn. There was no wind; Everything was still Fields ploughed and ready The year come full circle, Poised and waiting You were slipping away- Unseen; The clocks go back next week; You wanted to know- I shall shout it out. I said and I did. Today the sun did shine Your voice was heard One star joined the sky The tap did flow There is no cup standing All clothes are put away The leaves have been swept Frost glistened on the lawn Everything was white The air was sharp Beauty adorned A world in waiting You slipped away The wind is in the North East You would want to know And I shall shout it out.
Polperro Spindrift line of silver grey Tide on the turn Red stain of paint Across the harbour ground Hemp ropes are straining Against Hulls wedged in sand The freshening wind Throws fresh spots of rain Drawn lines of grey From the cloud’s edge Behind the harbour wall A narrowing beach The water rushes in The dark mouth of the cave Hides a smuggler’s tale Sea worn Smooth steps No tread White walls and narrow lanes Cling to the edge Juxtaposed at odd angles Misshapen doors and windows Signify age and subsidence Strange names etched of Spanish vowels and Cornish girls Do tell of strange liaisons Stranger trades of contraband And tax laws Evasion and subterfuge Do tunnels lead dreckly to the shore As Poldark would have us to believe? Dark tales in this traditional scene So easily conjured there.
Electricity Beneath my hand a distorted energy A flickering page Electrical disharmony Overload and charged Flickering screen Pulsating lines Distorted rhythm A heart trace uneven Unsynchronised The whir of a hidden force field Blurred edged Blank screen Dissonance radiates like a crawling mist Enveloping substance Hidden forces Overhead cables play tunes above Static tension below Pulsating noise Chaotic motion Babbling voices Blank screens Without charge Without patience Buttons pressed with frantic motion Random commands No time to wait All time to lose Head spin Headache Pressure mounts No backup Fear and adrenelin Neurons fire sparks To random Distorted ideas and Forced Unrealistic expectations Irrational thoughts seep through the cortex Cancerous in motive they seek to destroy Caustic and marauding A spiral of disillusionment Hopelessness resonates In spirals. Reverse the spin. Regain control Change gear and Change thought with a Different energy Head up Run though the rain Under the pylons A different electricity in the Soughing of trees The sting of the rain and lick of the hair The force of the wind full in the face The splash of the heel The rhythm of pace Shout into the air Release it aloud Into the void Nobody hears Somebody hears We are heard We are known Wonderfully so- Free radicles Connected but free.
From West to East From West to East Granite exchanged for broken flint Cloud and cold for warmth of sun An autumnal morning for late summer afternoon Overcast moorland to glinting sea A jewelled picture A precious time Coming home.
We Live with Dreams
We live with dreams When hopes are raised And lines are changed Excitement looms Everything is bright Colours shine And energised and bold Life feels good. All it takes- A hidden agenda Not what it seems Tables are turned Warnings given A realisation Disappointment Tries to overwhelm To bring us down Seeking to undermine Confidence dwindles Cheated Deflated We feel lost. A new day New horizon A new goal There’s always choice To turn it around Look forward We hope We trust again In one who knows Who shares the journey And so we move on To live with dreams.
Pack Cells With Joy
Pack your cells with joy Strip off all of winter’s sloth Embrace the new day Celebrate the patch of blue Breathe deep and embrace the light.
Interlude
Squall and bludgeoning relent Blackened end to winter’s claw Naked trees claim dignity Somber skies,some respite bring Birds loud, in haste,intensify As clouds reform on western fringe Unite a social call.
In the Roar of the Gale
Filigreed tips of naked branches Strain Against the roar of the gale; A solitary crow- in futile flight- Relinquishes its path Carried by the current On a different plane; Carrying the ghostly Conversations of ancient miners Who trudged this route In twilight hours As darkness and grey mist Descend Deep into the sunken lane Where carpets of spongy moss creep Over sodden branches and roots; And dripping ferns plug every gap. Pot -hole riven, The single track is stretched in girth and lined in running orange stain Of tractor tread, Leaching from the ancient banks Punctuated only by gateways Splayed wide open Straining on the hinges That hold them.
Who Really Knows me ?
Thoughts and entanglements from the limits of my mind Within in the cerebral cortex; Fissured and deep The folded contours The map of my life In laminar flow across Hemispheres; Woven, those gossamer threads, Tangled wires of emotion, Beads Of thought Which link us to places Long buried; When awakened, they Resurface, fragmented From the hidden depths. Each of us carries The map of our lives On our skin In the way that we move In the people we meet. Recognisable Of that inner cognition? Or refined and guarded A manicured exterior? The mirror’s reflection, Intricately complicated, So I hardly know myself, And yet in One I am fully known For we are beautifully and Wonderfully made.
Estuary
I turned my face to the sweeping sky And the breeze drawn by the Eddying current; I traced the snaking curve Of the channel; I watched the light play on The mirrored surfaces- Tiny rivulets spread like fingers In the mud, As Sandpipers picked their way With bobbing heads; Their matchstick legs, Angular and straight; And beyond,a flock of avocets, Their curved beaks Stabbing like needles; And wondered if their collective Gathering was convivial; Two geese nonchalantly grazed, Comfortable together; I looked across to ancestral roots And connected to The view its beauty dawned.
Winter’s Vice
An insurmountable deluge of rain, The dullest of days, The coldest wind As Earth,its struggle with winter In vice is held tight; Even the snowdrops their Heads nod low, The ferns still resolutely furled, Fragile leaves languid curled Comatose from frozen state; All warmth squeezed out of These ancient stone walls And dampness seeps.
Day to Night from the Window
With stealth the darkness creeps And seals the day With hardly a difference of Day from night; Ink black rooks From their roost Take flight, Circle, then return to the Same bare branches Silhouetted against The soot grey sky; Wintery sleet Falls; The cold seeps Through every gap; Even the log fire Struggles in the grate; There is no wind Just empty blackness.
Hope Love and Rainbows There’s always hope If we’re brave enough to Feel it; Light if we open our eyes To reveal it; Love if we allow our hearts To receive it And tears (enough to fill the sea) To prove it. Jewels in plenty to redeem Life in all abundance awaits But patience awards Those who wisdom have With knowledge that We are not alone. Together we press on. Remembering the rainbow In the sky.
Winter Walk
If Ever there was a Robin
photograph by K Shuttleworth
Footsteps without words The eye is drawn To capture The broad sky Soft haze of the shoreline The filtered light The beauty Of defined grandeur. The ear is drawn To rhythmic motion Sounds without calls Powerful and resolute The heart is drawn To footsteps without words. Be still my soul.
Polperro Spindrift line of silver grey Tide on the turn Red stain of paint Across the harbour ground Hemp ropes are straining Against Hulls wedged in sand The freshening wind Throws fresh spots of rain Drawn lines of grey From the cloud’s edge Behind the harbour wall A narrowing beach The water rushes in The dark mouth of the cave Hides a smuggler’s tale Sea worn Smooth steps No tread White walls and narrow lanes Cling to the edge Juxtaposed at odd angles Misshapen doors and windows Signify age and subsidence Strange names etched of Spanish vowels and Cornish girls Do tell of strange liaisons Stranger trades of contraband And tax laws Evasion and subterfuge Do tunnels lead dreckly to the shore As Poldark would have us to believe? Dark tales in this traditional scene So easily conjured there.
Electricity Beneath my hand a distorted energy A flickering page Electrical disharmony Overload and charged Flickering screen Pulsating lines Distorted rhythm A heart trace uneven Unsynchronised The whir of a hidden force field Blurred edged Blank screen Dissonance radiates like a crawling mist Enveloping substance Hidden forces Overhead cables play tunes above Static tension below Pulsating noise Chaotic motion Babbling voices Blank screens Without charge Without patience Buttons pressed with frantic motion Random commands No time to wait All time to lose Head spin Headache Pressure mounts No backup Fear and adrenelin Neurons fire sparks To random Distorted ideas and Forced Unrealistic expectations Irrational thoughts seep through the cortex Cancerous in motive they seek to destroy Caustic and marauding A spiral of disillusionment Hopelessness resonates In spirals. Reverse the spin. Regain control Change gear and Change thought with a Different energy Head up Run though the rain Under the pylons A different electricity in the Soughing of trees The sting of the rain and lick of the hair The force of the wind full in the face The splash of the heel The rhythm of pace Shout into the air Release it aloud Into the void Nobody hears Somebody hears We are heard We are known Wonderfully so- Free radicles Connected but free.
From West to East From West to East Granite exchanged for broken flint Cloud and cold for warmth of sun An autumnal morning for late summer afternoon Overcast moorland to glinting sea A jewelled picture A precious time Coming home.
We Live with Dreams
We live with dreams When hopes are raised And lines are changed Excitement looms Everything is bright Colours shine And energised and bold Life feels good. All it takes- A hidden agenda Not what it seems Tables are turned Warnings given A realisation Disappointment Tries to overwhelm To bring us down Seeking to undermine Confidence dwindles Cheated Deflated We feel lost. A new day New horizon A new goal There’s always choice To turn it around Look forward We hope We trust again In one who knows Who shares the journey And so we move on To live with dreams.
Running in the Slow Lane
Running with the pace of life is fast Journeys taken without concern or care Words used and carelessly abandoned Targets and deadlines replaced there. Among the burgeoning piles of file-paper The overflowing nature of our lives Where mindfulness becomes one extra chore And our mental well-being's in demise. Did it really take a global situation To make us stop and take a different path To see beyond our own limitations To a different perception that was stark? In every sense our freedom was clean taken Overnight the challenge made quite clear To stop or simply be over-taken By the warnings given and of course by fear. And so quite simply we were shaken and everything quickly reassessed In every home spread across the nations Priorities that had to be addressed Management of time became our own To choose a little wisely than before In the slow lane running - a different tempo To listen and observe and gain far more. Joy is found abundantly in wildlife When we chance to stop awhile and look To see how nature heals and restores The balance of our lives so over-looked Running, swimming out by sea or moorland Birdsong and the colours of the skies Consciousness of elemental beauty Powerful healing for our lives.
I run in the Shadows
I run in shadows in the sunken lane
And look above to laden oak leaved boughs
And see the turn from green to orange hue
And feel the sun go down in quickened hours.
On bracken fronds the webs are spun and clear
The wispy threads of clematis hang low
The Spindle with its orange fruits of fire
And leaves are kicked upon the road below.
The hedgerow fruits are laden and so ripe
For Crumbles and for jams for winter store
The apples drop and bruise upon the ground
The lane is dark and the air is raw.
The sun sets brightly low in western sky
The reddish glow sets the world
On fire
The dew already heavy on the grass
As I head home ready to retire.
Wild Swimming Like a knife I cut the surface Of the deep dark saucer of the pool And plunge down Breath catching And rising As toes and fingers Are gripped by changing sensation; The coldness Seeps Through Warm skin Like a battery charger Creeping into every part of me, Leaving the world I know behind To join me to this new place In automatic union Of strange and raw freedom; Where stress has vanished Drawn by osmosis, Creating equilibrium In unknown depths Of different rhythms, Slowly Synchronised to my own; Matching my strokes To the draw of the current; My toes flexed Against a hidden force, Breath is even Energised and ready Awareness is sharpened The view is flattened Levelled with nature; I’m camouflaged At one with the river; My sight-line crossed By those who travel other paths Unfazed, Unknowing; The rules are changed.
Evening on the Slapton Line
Elemental beauty
Personified in the smile
Of the bay;
A ribbon of blue
Fading to pinkish grey;
The hue of the horizon
Giving way to a charcoal
Line - a smudge
Across the canvass
Of the silent sea
Save for the gentle
Rippling at the edge;
Soft roll of shingle
In and out;
In near darkness
Winking lights,
As vessels make their way
Into hidden ports;
Windows alight
From houses
Clinging like clams
To the rocks
Beyond which the luminescence
From the Lighthouse
Shines
White-
A beacon in the dark.
Summer Gone
Golden grasses hang
Suspended in warm air;
Gossamer threads string pearled strands
Across
In beaded chains;
Dew pools form
In grassy hollows.
Swallows have gone.
Blurred edges of the season;
Leaves torn by storm and rain;
Curled and ragged forms
Peppered lawns with
Debris strewn;
The party’s over-
The morning after.
On the brink of change;
Hold as we might to summer days;
We orbit on
Tilting from the sun until
Summer’s gone.
Big Skies above Dartmoor
Light box of the heavens
A Rembrandt sky
Painted and layered
An artist’s eye
Heaven drawn to earth
Held above
Shadows below
Clouds that grow
Haytor Vale
Sunken lanes
Protection given
Strength of trees
Anchored and firm
Roar of the wind
High above
Scurrying clouds
The Sun chasers
Bring
Curtained rain
A rainbow sheen
Primeval ferns
Olfactory senses
Stirred
Of woodland spores
Drenched in moorland
Dew
Spongy moss
Clings
To marbled granite
Quartz and feldspar
Flecked with mica
Strength imbued.
Babbling brook
Gurgling stream
Slate-hewn
Ford
Ancient crossing
Dry stone walls
And drover tracks
Hidden from view
Fan like veins
At moorland edge
Hold secrets
Deep in valley floor
And rise through gates
To lush green grass
Bracken deep
Flecked
With gorse and heather
Open skies
And granite tors
Wild and free.
Running Beside a River in Full Flood
Mercurial bubbles of foam
Twist and rotate
Spinning against the creased surface
Of blackened water
Effervescent as they travel
Downward towards the ocean
Then as I realise I’m travelling
At the same speed
At one weightless as those bubbles of air
On the water surface
My speed: the water speed
The sea 60 mins away
Onward the bubbles dance
Effortlessly over the churning
Waves
This is the river in full flight
Powerful and strong
Driving the current
Channelling the banks
Undercutting rocks
Carving its way
Onwards.
And so I too carve out the distance
Deepen the stride
Dig deep to ascend the hill
Onwards and upwards to home.
A Dartmoor Walk
The gentle rise of land
Through meadows of fine grass
Up ancient drover tracks
Cobbled and worn though time
Walls cloaked in moss and liverwort
Grey lichen hanging from stunted oaks
Draws the walkers upward to
The moorland gate.
Soft swathes of grass
And bracken flanks
Lead to the babbling of the brook
Over granite slabs
We nimbly step;
At Glasscombe mounds of stones
And ruined walls
Lead conversation to ancient times
The boundary wall becomes our guide
The eastern brook provides a ford
And then Ball Gate
Elaborate balls and granite columns
Tell of a forgotten age
The banks here adorned with flowers
Painted heather and flames of gorse Amidst jewels of berries bright.
Through lush growth we descend
On ancient routes that trace the edge
And finger down in secrecy
To meet the tiniest track
Like veins they wander and connect
And draw us down the hill
As moor is left and fields merge
Seamlessly a change
The track widens, becomes a road
Until the stream is met
And crossing a stile and past the woods
We have made our way right back.
Wild Swimming in a Dartmoor River
Lure of a swirling pool
Of rust brown moorland flow
Cascading over rocks
Covering orange sand;
The first steps in
Connect
With primeval force
And rhythm
To synchronise with nature
On eye level- a new world;
The energy released
To swim against the tide;
To swim and hold ones own
At one with nature’s force
The cleansing that it brings;
The mind is sharply focused
Sees things usually unseen;
The angled forms of rock,
The feel of rounded stones,
The sounds of rush of water,
Chains of bubbles spiral;
The freshness of damp air
The warmth of the water.
The freedom that is owned;
Breathe deep and inhale
An elixir for life is found.
The End of a beautiful Day
Warmth hangs on the evening air,
Quiet breath of the cows,
Jewelled streaked sky unfurls,
Joins heaven to earth
In camera frame-
A world in stillness held.
Evening in Each Direction
Look West: A golden band paints the western sky Grey threads drawn through, Soft edges dissipate. Leaves which earlier were twisted and wind-blown Cast silhouettes; The black moorland outline Is defined Like the back of a sleeping giant. Look North: Cyan Blue and misty grey Softness as the light diminishes; A world of stillness broken By the fleeting shapes that Cross the sky. Look South: The distant hills Of violet hue Where the land meets the sea Look East. Beyond the dark shapes of trees A whisper of light Pulsates once then twice Through the night The lighthouse beam Twenty five miles away Look west: Night.
Transient element of Morning
A veil of cloud hangs between moorland ridge and green lowland hills Like grey cloth hung on a line; The air is still; A luminence behind signals transience of shower And captures the moment before Earthy spores release from heavy drops In deliberate fall of summer rain A primeval dampness prevails As arched stems bend forward, Frothy clouds of spent willow herb shroud the foliage beneath; Rain dances on the canopy above Drips steadily branch to branch Of sodden grass And slippery stones beneath; The wind picks up In soughing of the trees; The view diminishes; Stillness is lost; The haunting beauty Becomes a memory.
When hopes are Dashed
When hopes are dashed And all around seems dull And uselessness prevails and all thoughts take downward turn Head to the lanes And breathe Look the mist and the rain in the eye Run headlong into the wind And stride towards the hills; Oh to be out on the road Going not wither or where Taking all thoughts and questions Releasing them into the air.
If I could
If I could, I would surf the waves If I could,I would be a sky runner If I could,I would write a book If I could,I would climb the world’s mountains. Yet I can ride the waves of a storm Run the depths of the lanes Write words that inspire And help in a way that moves mountains.
Sunday Morning
When the mist languishes down the pane in rivulets of tears, speckling the glass in glistening bubble chains; and the pendulous trees nod and bow in random motion against roar of the wind ;the spume of cloud moves across the sky in an unfurled carpet Of grey; and the moorland ridge is seemingly pellucid and the world beyond the tops of trees has gone,in hyaline cloak;it seems discernible to stay awhile in bed. Ruth Partridge
From the Cliffs
First glimpse of sparkle on the sea Glistening shards- Fragmented light; A luminance of glass Shimmers effortlessly Across the flattened surface Of subtle hue of cornflower blue And teal; A mesmerising amalgam Between pastel land And powdery sky; That wide band of light Tye -died and fanned; An array like The stroke of a brush Glazed across the canvas; A smudged horizon Boundless Indefectible movement of sea and sky Creating beguiling changes From play of light; We are drawn to watch.
Haiku -Scandi Design
Memories to keep Beautiful script from the heart Simplicity shines
The Keepers- Stonehenge
Think of these as keepers, Closed ranks On hidden secrets Form connotations of mystic meaning Threaded through time. The world without Dark mystery within Waiting; Questions surround; Clear purpose inside. What covert union Maintains the recumbent secret Unscripted in ancient rocks From Welsh Pressili hills? Behemothic bluestone Hewn a hundred miles away With Neolithic tools- Rome wasn’t built in a day Or Pyramids by the Nile; Which age considered primitive? The stones won’t enlighten our Naivety Or edify the secret; Think of these as keepers. Ruth Partridge
Cairns
Sculptural art Or pile of rocks The view aloft on mountain tops; To one just a ragged mound Another a safety line is found; When lost in mist the drop is spared By the site of stones ahead impaired. One time with friend We’d set off clear Intentions sharp, maps set No fear; We reached the ridge in record time And onward to the peak we climbed. Only then, did a shower of snow Deplete the route we aimed to go; At which with compass bearing checked Precariously we inched our way Knowing that the edge was near Impossible though it was to clear So heavily it snowed and fast We were unsure how long it’d last. Nervously we stopped to think And suddenly the mist retreated Enough to see that pile of stones A cairn which every walker knows Marks a cross or sudden drop We knew we were right to make that stop. So as we pass that way marked spot We place a stone upon the top With care by some And others not But working together the pile will grow And mark the place like lighthouse glow For all who chance on mountain slope The cairn is there to give some hope. Ruth Partridge
Anchors
An anchor holds Fast In a storm With strength imbued Taught and firm In calm Released The boat will drift What anchors us when things get hard? Or do we come adrift?
Starlight Memories
Gossamer threads Spun gold Join heaven to earth; Whispered ethereal messages Across time And space Chase conversations Across the skies; Echoes of those Who walk on distant shores Who walk in parallel Light and free In time and space Tracing the stars.
Change within Miles
How lucky we are to live between the moors and the sea. Sometimes we feel in a bubble of our own micro-climate. A short drive and everything can be different.
A strengthening wind And unsettled sky Grey mist intermittent over the moor A short distance South To where land meets the sea Over the hill The sea comes to view The colours transformed Cerulean and green Sparkling in the distance We rounded the lane Drove down to the familiar beach again. The difference so great Clear skies and wide views Start Bay at its best How quickly things change.
Running with the Wind
It plays tricks in the lane Like galleons in full sail Trees high on the banks Sound like rain Cocooned between banks Is like the trough of the wave With every gate passed Another blast from the side The out run is fast Wind on the back With every turn there’s a change Debris strewn Picking my way Wind in my hair Soughing of trees Then roaring again Deep in the valley The shelter there Stillness is held I can hear myself Climb to the ridge Meet it head on Air sucked from breath Big skies Reveal High building cloud Towering above A line of grey Intensity growing Another turn Wind in the hair I’m flying again.
Faith
Trust in the things we cannot see
Injection of self belief
Confidence to take
A
step
and
Move
from our comfort zone
To take a leap unknown
Resolve to leave things for
Another
Day.
Courage to ask for help
Wisdom to know that
That we need to worry only about the
Things of today
Tomorrow takes care of itself
Acceptance when we get things wrong
Recognition of infallibility
And human limitations
Understanding that these
abstract
nouns
Are as intangible as the words suggest
To unpick and define
As the complexities of the temporal lobe
Limited by cerebral cortex
Faith is when
We hope in a better tomorrow
Faith comes from trust
In love given from above.
They forecast thunder
They forecast thunder: Looking above Marbled sky ever changing Sweeping like the dementors Of Harry Potter fame. A stirring overhead, Silent and heavy; A world in waiting Subtle changes Building cloud then dissipating Heavy sporadic drops of rain From no apparent source. Enough to release the intoxicating smell of spores released from the earth. The orange sky against intense grey- layers of smoke grey Bubbling clouds with cauliflower Edges; A Spielberg sky Intimidating Mesmerising Forces of nature With Strength building Into the night. We’re still waiting They forecast thunder.
Evening Light
Ribbons of pastel colours Chalked across the sky The heat dissipates The colour intensifies Above The silhouette of moorland ridge Stars aligned and waiting A crescent moon aglow A hung stillness Dampness creeps And night waits in the wings Until black Is chalked across the sky Enveloping all.
Haiku Poppies Highlighter of verge Of gateway or of the field Brilliance displayed. One day flowerer A splash of red against green Native of wasteland. Resilient seed To paper- thin endurance Poignant remembrance. Ruth Partridge
Only in England known
Endurance of mist and rain
Dense blanket of grey.
Haiku:Mizzle- a definition
Only in England known
Endurance of mist and rain
Dense blanket of grey.
Ruth Partridge
Summer Solstice Stonehenge
The Heel stone marks the rise
The crown of the year
The sun in its meridian
Held momentarily clear;
Statistically recorded
Longest day of light
Waning days till Yule
Bale fires alight.
Mystic ritual performed,
Ancient Norse procession,
The light of Earth’s existence,
Mysteries of succession.
The sun reaches its zenith
Upon these ancient stones;
Our planet in quiet alignment
In beauty is honed;
Connects something intangible
Deep in DNA
Responding to those questions
Of Neolithic way.
Older than we can fathom,
None can reason how?
Spirituality reawakened
To ask the question now.
The orbit explained with physics
Around this central star;
The planetary alignment mathematical
Seeks order out of chaos
To be predictable.
Questions still unanswered
Evoke such mystery
Of time long discussion
Summer Solstice agreed
A spectacle indeed.
Whatever belief or none
Put science and faith together;
From this our wisdom comes;
The power of our Earth
Is drawn from things above,
But the greatest thing of all
It was made with love.
Ruth Partridge
To understand
To understand I have to place
my feet
In someone else’s shoes;
To smile and walk beside
Is not a lot to lose.
Ruth Partridge
Compromise
Nothing’s ever perfect
Nothing’s ever right
Give and take
Empathy
We learn to see a point of view
To let things go
To see another way
We wrestle
The Acceptance of disappointment
To learn to live without
To let things lie
We pray for
humility to accept defeat
Forgiveness from
The one whose love
Will never compromise
And so
We learn
The art of compromise.
Ruth Partridge
The Stillness of Morning
Taking on the serenity of morning,
That first glimpse of the day
Before sullied by things to be done;
To simply ‘be’
In that moment
Suspended in time and space
Quiet and refreshed.
Alone,
Breath steadied and deliberate,
Still.
Ruth Partridge
Ghost Routes
A narrow length of grey Disappears into black Between high hedges Well aligned. Ferns are arched With secrets held In spectral stillness. A Breath of wind Casts elicit conversations Between the leaves, Murmurs Of time forgotten years By long gone travellers Whose spectres linger there Above the moss And creeping ivy That twists around The gnarled trunks of trees. Haunting stillness Envelopes all and Takes me in to feel And breathe that history. Ruth Partridge
Hare
Brown hare at the gate
There on my wheel
Power engaged
Turns on a sixpence
Gone.
Ruth Partridge
Shadows
Shadows form; Charcoal stains splash across the road; Light is obscured Thrown into darkness, Hidden. Shadows grow; As daylight lengthens A tree in shadow Solidified, its strength intensified; Patterns play on surfaces, Undersides in darkness Silvered above. Shadows define The light at the end Of a tunnel of trees; The pattern of stone In a wall. Shadows hide Those who don’t want to be seen. Ruth Partridge
Fog Haiku
Stealthy appearance
Resolutely unyielding
Enveloped in white.
Storm Approaching
Clouds of grey are churning High above in stratus; Soughing of trees increases With punctuated stopping Under heaviness awaited. Intensity foreboding; Drawn to be outside To feel the storm approaching To feel the pressure dropping Into deep depression; Oppressiveness in air A world more monochrome; The road joins the sky; Hedges lean in closer. An air of caution heeded With Heavy drop of rain The turning off of light Foliage hanging heavy Birds going quiet. Ruth Partridge
Stolen Time?
Consciousness of sound Momentary wakefulness Awareness returns. The calm grey of dawn Recumbent cows are stirring Sleeping world waiting. The first sound of birds An urgent call and restless The flourish soon gone. Blurred edges of day Nocturnal meets diurnal Time stands juxtaposed. Thoughts like whispers flow Slowly losing clarity Recrudescent dream. Ruth Partridge
The Slapton Line
Long sweeping curve of the bay Thread of yellow Meets mist And foreboding cloud Disappearing into a charcoal sky, Whipped up waves Churn against the shoreline; Light plays on the ever-changing Surface Of indigo and grey; A constant movement of the beast, A heaving mass of rolling wave Surges and falls; Hides the creatures that live Beneath its surface. No sign of porpoise or seal . And where is that great Leviathan we once saw? When eyes trained for hours Were rewarded with That great spout of water and arch Of the tail; That spectacle so great; Nothing today but Random illusions from Effervescent forces, The damp wind in the face And voices blown away on salted air. Ruth Partridge
Haiku Pattern – Tables Turned
At the end of March We stepped off the planet The world kept turning. Our pace had to slow With endless restrictions Nature stayed at work. We began to notice Sounds so more distinctive We listened more. Birds became louder- The blackbird, wren and thrushes? You just thought that way! We had quietened And so insightful we saw more That was nature’s gain. Unhindered by us Nature continued growing The tables were turned. What when this all ends- Will we forget this learning? We owe it to the earth. Ruth Partridge
A Walk along the Shore
Awakened with childlike anticipation,
the world gives way
to a shimmering haze of blue.
An empty swathe of pale gold sand
meets the eye and
catches the breath
with a haunting beauty.
Wind-blown and almost deserted,
but for
a solitary figure some way West.
A setting unheard of
but these are exceptional times.
As if stripped of all unnecessary
accoutrement of human activity,
unadorned
where land meets the sea.
Fine dust and grit from an onshore wind,
A translucent sea
held still and glistening;
soft, turquoise blue-
a sheen against a pastel sky.
Cool sun
and gentle beams of light
cast shimmering lines
on the water surface
as it
gently tickles the shore.
A shallow skin of water
forming undulating pattern
of shifting sand
and rhythms
play
under the ever-changing sky;
shadows modifying the colour
in a mesmerising way,
Ribbons of blue green stain.
A gust of wind
entombs
faded footprints
which lead to water's edge.
Intuitively,
drawn to follow,
we too sink feet
and set our footprints there
in perfect line;
our pattern is the same.
And with flattened stones
Sea- worn smooth
in palms,
we skim the mirrored surface
and watch the spring
on the meniscus
spit and ripple.
Concentric circles
widen
to dissipating pattern
repeated as we play.
Instinctive is the need
to hold a shell
or turn
sea glass in the hand.
These are tactile pleasures
reciprocated every visit
on a walk along the shoreline.
We tread lightly:
take nothing but the air,
the freedom of the open space,
our voices on the wind.
sand in the hair,
the breath of the sea ,
the memory in our DNA.
Ruth Partridge
Lydia Bridge
An ancient bridge Spans moorland gorge Deep running Clawing at the rock; Smooth worn boulders Undercut And crystal pools Dark hollows block; A cobbled path will take us still, Smooth worn by constant tread; Age old route beside the river Leads up to Lydia Mill. Moss covered rocks line the way Tumbling along its line; Trees overgrown and leafy shrubs Restrict this view of mine. Sheep though graze beneath the boughs To shelter from the rain, Tucked in and hidden well Till showers have passed again. The way,though short,is special still What waits is worth a view; The water tumbles down with force Primeval smells of damp earth ensue. The climb is short An ancient stile Of stone is at the ridge; Beside darkened pools the final task To reach this ancient bridge.
Ruth Partridge
Rule of Three
The rule of three a writer's trick Memory facilitated, Three facts, that's it. In children's stories, threes found here, The Three Little Pigs The Three Musketeers. In fiction we remember three Beginning, middle and end agreed. A story group- a trilogy. A Narrative that shows progression Built up with tension Then released invention. Even stooges came in three Shakespeare made good use of these. A student learns with ease. Letters too have this restriction Salutation And valediction. There's strength in three for sermon too Three points made, then conclude Expected rule To err would fool. Consider other speeches then, 'Friends, Romans, Countrymen!' Slogans Pen: Stop Drop Roll, The 3 Rs toll, Three goals. There's power of three Makes a cube Rigidity of strength imbued. Take a power away and strength is lost. A flat square is not as strong. Power gone. Three-leaved clover, a fourth is rare; Nature's power of three is there, Three elements in air. The Bible too has symbols then: The three wise men, The cockerel crowed three times again. The third hour,the third day, Three times in the garden at Gethsemane The disciples forgot to pray. Father, Son and Spirit given At Trinity the power from heaven Omnipotence is riven. Omnipresent Omniscience Power over all with love is meant. A triune God of one in three Blessed Holy Trinity. The rule of three. Ruth Partridge
Hidden Secrets
All is calm below The soughing trees above Protect this hidden space The depths I've learnt to love. Richness in these lanes Hold such secret there, A hidden wealth of nature Makes me linger there. Echoes in the wind; Gentleness beneath the trees ; Vibrancy beheld; The beauty of the leaves. Pastel shades of green Whispered feathers blown. Muted creatures stirred The lane gives up its throne. The secret lives it holds Twisted stories it could tell of folk who walked its path This lane I know so well. Ruth Partridge
After Rain
A pastel glow beneath the heavy sky Signals a sign of change. Warmth descends to valley floor; All nature held in the spell of rain. Breathe deep. Droplets jewel from the fronds of ferns; Earthy smell from moss and stone Heightens senses in this place; The knowledge of being quite alone. Breathe deep. In this world of darkened state Of hidden boughs laid low Musk of fox, rank smell of decay Spires of foxglove bright pink aglow. Breathe deep. The tremoring call of the lark, A bird which cannot be seen So high it flies above; The silhouette of the hare On sodden field of green. Breathe deep. All nature seems awakened The shower for now has passed. Swallows skim close to the ground Refreshment , nourishment Elixir of life is found. Breathe deep. Ruth Partridge
Summer Rain
A leaden sky, dark grey marauds against the brightness of the morning. A stillness; with time suspended; all nature waits. Slow to fall the sound awakens, perceptions heightened. Olfactory senses stirred by primeval smells of spores released. A reawakening - nature's release. Rejuvenation or decay, water replenishes. Droplets quicken- moving to a different tempo. Sounds intensify against hard earth. Nature responds: Birds quieten, Plants stand tall, Colours intensify against the grey. With gentleness it falls , The weathervane redundant; Windless Slow moving Thirst quenching Life-giving. Into pools and rivulets streams in the lane each droplet finding its course, Repurposed, Focused. For each living thing hydration. Repurposed, Focused, Changed. Ruth Partridge
Early Summer Run
inspired after a run on a very hot day June 1st
A dusty road snaking down To sound of constant whine. The rumbling sound of trailers carried, Grass-cutting is the sign Of summer in this ancient lane- A vein off an artery. None will know that this exists Save those whose lane it be. To run this route is less well known But beautiful all the same. It slopes away beneath the hill Contouring is this lane. So stride is long and metres swift From top to valley floor. The river is a welcome sight, The shade of trees assured. The river's sound is pleasant now- A soft flow through the gorge. Slabs of stone are now revealed Undercut by constant force. Sparkling water runs so clear And tempting it would be To take a dip within its depths As it glints and beckons me. Instead the view of houses Perched up on the hill; The choice is there- short and steep- Or even longer still. Past the old kiln cottages The true height though is hidden A laboured run up the narrow track Roughly worn and pot hole riven. This, an hour, is not so long As others on my rounds, But offers up the best in choice of running steep hills down. The shelter though and trees contrast And the river is a dream And often favoured is this way To run a while unseen. Ruth Partridge
Inspired by a three Km stretch of lane which our family has always called ‘the thinking lane’- on account of us walking it almost daily, alone, together or with dogs. It’s a single-track road with few passing places, but mostly straight enough to see something coming and quiet enough to hear something coming. It is far from flat and the hills add interest as it follows the valley – one of the prettiest in South Devon.
Compline
A framed view of fields captured in The golden light Of long shadows and filtered sun; Where sheep graze , their coats full and heavy, And lambs in groups Charge to and fro in playful chatter. Where dappled light is cast And dark green of oak filters lime Through leaves caught by the sun Down into the sunken lane; Where the air is close; The heat intense; Breath is heavy; Holding on to the warmth of the day. Stirrings in the bank as I run past Rustles and urgent calls of a thrush- That elusive bird of dawn and dusk- Darts across. Bullfinches play out in final flourish Branch to branch- with seemingly no purpose But to enjoy. The flowers too- Colours intensified Of striking foxglove and blousy willowherb. A bee works frantically Petal to petal Bright yellow buttercups and campion Face upward, Tall grasses arch over. The air thick with the scent of honeysuckle. Time is running; I am stopping To watch, to look and save the view. Waiting. A cloud of dust : a tractor passes; The farmer waves And makes his way home. The air settles and the view clears. My breath is stilled. This simple beauty of a world intensified Just before the sun goes down in Rhythm of the day. Where all creation seems held In harmonious pursuit of calm enjoyment. This is their church and mine to share. Before the ending of the day Grant us a quiet night and a perfect end. Ruth Partridge
The Ridgeway Road
When I ran along this route the other evening, it’s comparable length and straightness challenged in a different way from the tiny lanes. As ever, I’m lost in thought and invariably think back. This was the evening exploring local history- something I wanted to do with the written notes I have to hand. Local friends may recognise the places. The poem dips and dives a bit, just like the road itself. Please enjoy.
Long and narrow upland road
Hugs the contour line;
Worn through time of toiling step
From abbey to the Devon coast.
The Ridgeway
For meditation and reflection-
A solitary journey,
A pilgrim on the route.
In Saxon times the name is changed
To Wheel Way, though still rough.
Wheels are made for ease of travel
Yet progress slow
It's far from flat.
The reddish stain of Devon soil
Hugs
The rims and soils the boots
Of those who walk.
The views are good where land is open
A safer way to go,
Yet sheltered too from deep set banks
Stones drawn: soil piled
As fields are made
And native trees line the path
From the winds that cut across
Forested Dartmoor hills.
Romans may have aligned some straightness
Visible in Five-Mile Lane.
Sketchy knowledge they were here.
The Normans were and used the route
And named a field Vauldeveur.
Medieval times, manorial living
Gifted by the king.
Villain farms,
A settlement,
Beenleigh, Trimswell names remain.
From the ridge
Lanes steep and narrow
Connect the valleys
Thread like veins,
Farm to farm
Hidden deep ,
Long ingrained.
Still well-used this road through time,
What memories it holds
If only we could see.
The clues are there
But nothing more-
The love of history.
Ruth Partridge
Written this morning to catch the beauty before it is gone.
South Devon Banks In May
Elevated in tiered position,
Ephemeral clouds of white froth of Cow Parsley
Drift above slender stems;
Elegant
Queen Anne's Lace
In vogue and favoured.
The Violet velvet of Bluebells
Fades gracefully beneath;
Statuesque monarch
To central orb.
Sparkling woodland celebrities-
Fluted rubies of Red Campion, Robin Hood or Cuckoo Flower-
And princess-cut diamonds of white Stitchwort
Dance amidst;
Heralding
The strong fanfare of emerald ferns
Unfurling their fronds to the sky
Catching the light in multifaceted array.
These are the jewels of the season...
A long awaited
Regal appearance;
Transient in beauty,
Perfect by design.
Ruth Partridge
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;
Opposed lives chancing to meet.
Ruth Partridge
Devon Lane
Ruth Partridge
High banks bear down on a ribbon of grey;
Undulations rise and fall;
A palette of colours brush one world
With another;
Hidden secrets: whispers heard
Of ancient labourers' trail
The Rhythms of time;
Work of the seasons kept marked;
Rough and worn down by tread and wheel;
Timeless, monotonous
Twist and turn;
Punctuated
Views through old gates that frame
Soft green against the grey.
A galleried work of smooth grass or plough,
Shows hill to climb;
The path goes on to destination end.
Ascension Day
This is the time of year
When life springs from the cave
Pushing back the stone,
And vanishes to heaven
leaving blue stains in the woodland
Drops on sunshine on the meadows
New lambs bouncing in the backdraft.
Then we are alone , just
Ghosts of memory on our shoulders,
The storms from events without,
The dread of emptiness within,
Comforted by the softness of truth
Buried in our DNA.
Wordwool mindfoxblog
Warmth hangs on the evening air,
Quiet breath of the cows,
Jewelled streaked sky unfurls,
Joins heaven to earth
In camera frame-
A world in stillness held.
My Devon Life 