Running in the slow lane
Salt spray and raucous noise
In the face
Dogs bark to the wind
The waves ebb and flow
Drawn back, curled low
Churning the Old Devon Sandstone
Sucked from under the red stained cliffs;
Erosion in drifts;
Scars tell the story
The coast path’s moved
Again.
Drawn are we to
The pebbled shore,
The shelving beach,
The pounding waves,
Whipped up swell;
Faces to the wind we breathe the salt
Under the spell
All is well.
insouciance of the wind
squall and shower
ensconced in climate change
One breath
Suspended
In the passage of time
Through millennia
Drawn
To be alive
Amidst all fragility
To be present
In the folding layers
To know
And to be fully known
To conjure beauty
In the greyness of the day
Transported to the
Mountains of the mind.
When to the eye the lens is set
It is to anticipate
The grey- pink cloud
It’s signal known
That robin and blackbird silenced are
The Kaleidoscope is turned again
Greens to bronzed outlines
Clouds to yellowed smoke
Then, preceded by a poignant pause
All nature held
It comes
With force
In deliberate pulse
Beats in the rhythm of the day.
Purple Light filtered
Through curtains drawn;
A lens to the world
Clouded
Not yet focused;
Grey shadows
Draw bold shapes-
A landscape devoid
Of detail;
There’s a stillness
In the wind
Fingers of breath
Held
In readiness
But it is not yet time;
Sound -taciturn-
Noticeable through absence.
Waiting for the creases
In the sky to widen
And the world to wake anew.
The leaves set to fall
As rain it’s drops do shower
Relentless from the sky
Free flowing torrents
From the banks
Leaching from the fields
Streams of orange
Stain the road.
A hammering on the roof
The wind it does prevail
Whipping itself around the house.
Lundy , Fastnet,Irish Sea
The shipping forecast read.
The storm it has arrived.
To
Saving lives at sea.
In readiness we were not-
Eeking out the last days
On borrowed time.
Shutting the door on summer.
the ice is melting
questions and answers
a lonely catechism
It’s one of those nights . What we love is the solitude of rural living . Every once in a while it’s broken by sounds : usually the cry of the barn owl or a vixen squeaking .
Tonight though it’s joyriders – an unorganised rally of a great many cars racing through the lanes for several hours.
joyriding
on the wheel
in the moment
thoughts tumble
swell the darkness
voices of the past
Silhouettes
Across a pinkish glow
Gulls their silent span
Mist- a crease to top
The new -ploughed fields
Sculpted,the moorland land
Ribbons of white in reconfigured contours
Smoothing the valley floor,
Steaming silage
Sweet the smell
Hunger after more
Gold of arrow,
vapour trail
What view is theirs?
What view I have!
A glimpse of home
Midst rolling hills
Nestled in the veil.
Ruth Partridge