Ruth Partridge

The house which tells a family’s story

Is it the tread upon the staircase, steep, uneven,
Recognition  instinctive to the one which makes a sound? 
Is it a feeling of those who’ve trod the steps before   
Echoing times of joy and merriement
in song?
I think I hear conversations seeping through the walls
Like whispers that cocoon this ancient space
Softness with comfort lingers 
Suggests I slumber its embrace.
 
Touching the rail,
I seem to place my hand in theirs; 
I feel the laughter; I sense the memories shared; 
From  chair,to windowpane the way the curtain moves, 
I feel the breath of dampness in the air.
My spirit gently eases in the  softness of caress
Safety and security in all I’ve ever known;
This thread of family history is truly blessed;
Generation on generation have called it home.

Dare I to lose the house which tells the story 
Break the strands that hold me fast? 
Yet memories stay secure
within the cerebral cortex 
Uniquely wired and coded so will last. 
I am known to the one who loves and cares, 
Whose ancestry spans the test of  time
Interwoven  with all we’ve ever loved
Held until completion finally  is  mine.

Today I visited a very special house of a friend

In The Veil

The veil a lifting remnant is
Cloaks the valley far below 
Strength of wind 
And storm blown leaves 
Fall and scatter 
Drift like snow

All around tall planting fallen
Autumnal feel the garden wears
Late summer stakes it’s claim of sun
Last flush of colour
Lifts our cares

Storm – precursor or remnant?

A loud soughing in the trees
Wakes us early
A storm precursor with 
Sudden intensity 
Straining  branches  which bend and rock
Leaves are wrung out like
Handkerchiefs on the line
Falling
Mist cloakes- a wall of white 
The wind buffets the house
Until a sudden stillness
As it drops.
The veil is lifting 
Then it starts over
With a lion’s roar.

If I could stem the Flow of Time

If I could stem the flow of time;
Could halt the fading of a flower;
Let effervescence bubble in my hand
Trace comet tails through a meteor shower;
Oh to see her run again  along the  sand;
Over dunes to  plunge to the turquoise sea;
Salt fresh,in  wind-flapped ears and tail;
To walk, to run,to be free.

White Sands and Turquoise Sea

Never has a dog walk been this good . The dogs loved it, especially Pepper the Whippet, who has difficulty walking far. She loved stretching out on the white sand. It was a joy to paint this scene .

Shorelines

The light over the Sound of Mull was beautiful, turning grass yellow . Totally quiet and peaceful .Not a breath of wind .

Sidmouth Poetry Reading

It was such a privilege to be invited to speak at Sidmouth Poetry Society

Chatter in the Eaves

A muted stirring in the greyness
Soft chatter in the eaves
Restless whistles that are muffled
No sound of a breeze
A sharper sound grates in urgency
Punctuates the line
Pulsations on a single note 
The caller is defined
In minutes the sky is lightened
Grey turns to tinge of blue
Day hangs briefly in a balance
Night’s silence ensues.

Love walks alongside

A smudge of ash
In return to dust
From dust to creation
In the potter’s hands
In frailty we tread 
Though never alone
We are held by love.
Love walks alongside.

124 years ago they stared

People stared at the camera unaware that 124 years later we would stare at them as we scroll on Instagram

Mesmerised we scroll through  sunken faces 
Strange innocence behind those haunting eyes  
For they have known more hardship
Than our countenance affords us
And we intrigued can only wonder why?

Would they have ever envisaged that we would be watching clips of early camera work so long after and can we fathom people watching video of us 124 years from now?

Their stories would have been shaped by the Great War, unfathomable for them at that moment and yet in reality would take 1 in 5 from the trenches- hardship upon hardship.