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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

Crossing the Bar

By Alfred Lord Tennyson.

I have no words for today except those of one far more accomplished than me. For her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II . 

Sunset and evening star
And one clear call for me!
And May there be no moaning at the bar
When I put out to sea.

But such a tide that moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound or foam;
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell 
When I embark;

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time  and Place, 
The flood may bear me far;
I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
When I have cross’t the bar.

The Last Breakfast

Breakfast outside 
Regardless
Summer as taut as 
An elastic band
Fully stretched
Eeking out
The last hours
Already there is change;

How we have grown to fear it.

The threads of
Halcyon days by sea or river 
Begin to sever their clarity
As memories merge
And leaves fall to the ground;

Expectations out-way the reality.

There’s a slight chill
In the air
A soughing on
The fingers of the wind
Clouds across the sky.

Still the plates are laid
Honeyed figs and ginger
As an offering
For the last breakfast
A symbol of summer

To keep.









Little town by the Sea

Little town by the sea
Stretches the distance 
Of pebbles and sandstone 
Steep and precarious
Where once I walked;
Now no more.

Content though to watch 
Oblique waves
Churning the sand 
A roaring of the undertow
Perpetual motion 
Pebble on pebble 
Sharp flint rounded and smoothed
In timeless pursuit 

Owning the beach
Time ticks one hour or two 
My beach 
My memories 
Held above this shore
For all eternity.

Persistence of Memory



Time stops for nobody
We can tell the time at a glance Even upside down
Though not always in the mirror.
Two years past
An upturned watch face
Confronted me from my childhood jewellery box
I could not recollect it being mine
It was almost discarded
Tarnished
Still the gold glinted and worth a look
I turned it over
The box was clearly labelled
It was mine
How long have these faces been the same – time stuck – a memory ?
How long had this watch lain face down ?
Persistence in memory ?
I could not say
26 years at least since my mother could have put it there.
In my box
For me to find
I stare at the face
Try to ascertain when the time was last real.
To know the story
Resisting the urge to wind it on
I gaze at the champagne dial
I note the maker
Longines
Google does the rest.
1930s
Not Mum’s -her Father’s
Look again at how persistent the time is set
The urge to wind it is too great
I cannot resist
I turn the hands
In fluidity
I hear the tick watching them move Into the 21st century with Persistence drawn from the age of perfect movement .
It will look good on my wrist I note Trends favour the large dial
And cleaned, repaired so it does
From my grandfather to me
Persistence of memory.

Written by Moonlight

An aria in the sky awaits 
For the meteor shower,
But bold is the moonlight 
Casting a pinkish hue,
Silhouetting the bovine shapes 
In the field
Into obscurity reminiscent of 
A biblical scene;
The outline  of the moors 
Defining a perfect backdrop;
So still the night, 
The slightest movement heard;
Chaotic the skies above,
Yet we fail to see
Our frailty exposed 
To the wonders of the heavens;
Oh to rest awhile in quiet communion there
With the faintest of stars,
Trace satellites in orbit
Blink planets into view;
Looking up and beyond
To things we do not understand;
Trance ourselves away
Hold the moon in our hand
Bathe in the softness of its light.