Running in the slow lane
In getting things wrong,
In getting things right,
We are changed and transformed;
We are not who we were
Twelve months past,
We have changed;
He has changed us;
We walk not alone
Cast like boats adrift;
Our stories
His story.
His presence
In our presence
Underpinning
The narrative,
Affirming relationships
One to another
At one with Him
For our journey
Is His journey.
We cannot soar on the wing like
The buzzard
But words
Tumble freely
And carry clarity
On the trail of the wind;
We cannot travel from far from home
But like pulsations in heart-flow
Phrases cross seas and oceans
Setting people’s hearts aglow.
With few words
More is spoken;
Stories layered with meaning
Shaped to carefully chosen prose,
Painted figuratively stirring feeling;
Words -though blameless in their form-
Do heavy fall when wrong tone
Chosen;
Words coined and light of touch
Like feathers
Softly lay
their whispers,
Covering hurt with gentle healing
Raising smiles,
Laughing,joking,
Teasing-
Living.
A rush of air sucks breath
From the lungs
The stride shortens
Head lowers
I dig deep
Peppered by bullets
Of shrapnel as hail
Stings the face
And skims
The tops of the hedges
And turn into
The sunken lane
Where primroses hide
Like
Porcelain tea cups
On rattling shelves
And acid celandine
Stands askew
With bent petals
Made ragged by last night’s
Storm
Not yet spent
Violets creep close to the ground
As the roar in the trees above
Drowns all other sound
And the low sun peeps
From under the veil
Of inky grey.
Running in the Slow Lane Here is the link to my book.
Never had I expected to write enough to publish a book but I have found myself doing so as I have come to love the written word.
Playing with words has become as natural as looking out of the window and I find myself with phrases turning in my head. Observations of the year are in these pages – many on nature and rhythms of the year and other musings.
Hail ricochets the window
With trembling and vibration,
Coursing through the bed frame
Like a road worker’s drill;
The storm pursues its path,
Relentless as its intent;
We were warned
The forecast said;
As in the darkness
Spring is torn from its bed
Sap is centrifuged in stems
Anchored roots are tested;
The ash will give up branches
Of buds which will never open
To be repurposed
As spring will rebuild
Renewed.
For now there is nothing
But to listen,
To lifting slates
And to thundering rhythms
And things being carried
Into the night.
Life’s juxtaposition
Units lacking alignment
We move in concentric circles
Following circadian rhythm
Or randomly stake position;
Do we strive to find common ground
Security in similarity
Or defined by individuality?
Free radicles are we who find our way through choice
I trace the rainbow through the rain
The drops which slip down the glass
I move through rooms like chess in play
I make my way across the board
With stealth
(Sometimes it’s luck)
I compose a thought
And find my path.
Written originally for the Ekphrastic Review
A sheltered spot
A glimpse of spring
Deep in the Cornish valley
A sheltered spot-
Belied the hope.
Yet overnight the frost
Strikes sharp
Though clear the day
Weak the sun
Firm ground to walk
The East wind dries
As forecast tells
Of storms and gales
The weathervane slows
And ambles round
The jet stream pattern
Sets the scene
Of change.
Liquid gold drips off ringed branches
Intense the molten sun at end of day
Projects its show against the
Naked form of larch
The boughs laden with golden tresses
Adorned with necklaces of amber
Crisp the air
An hour from dusk.
If all around the sphere
We call home seems to be
About to fall from the sky
And through shielded palms
Watch
We who fearful are
The ever changing tide
Will seek to overwhelm
All thought and reason
Yet if we stop awhile
And look above
A strength of blue defines
The stratosphere
Whilst blue is day
And sun is warmth
Hope comes from light
That light is love.
Ruth Partridge