In quietude
Day by day
Change in subtlety stirs
As textures fill
And colours spill
Before our eyes
In Quietude
Under Storm Clouds
A storm cloud swells as heaven sighs
Where ribbon of grey threads the skies
Clouds are heavy,dense,opaque
In shades of blue and streaks of slate.
The light beneath a fleeting trace
Entangled in the storm’s embrace
Intense the green of fields below
A shifting patchwork all aglow.
Contrasts illuminate and define
In every brushstroke, mark and line
Veil of rain,intense in hail
Of elemental storm and gale
Unseen
If I can stand a while in thought, and trance
The clouds away to brighter clearer skies;
Along the lane I’ll run and glimpse a passing glance
Afforded in return a valuable surprise.
The hedges tall ensconced with bramble,
Sink sunken lanes devoid of any view;
But every now and then like rhythmic punctuation rambles,
A gateway lights a beacon shining through.
Beyond the gate the land just melts away,
A steep, yet sheep- worn slope to valley floor;
A pasture managed and preserved in time,until today;
Through successive generations to folklore.
For how long unseen this landscape escapes the plough?
For now I simply wonder at the beauty afforded now.
The Moon through Fog
Through dense fog she shines;
Her hollow light
Piercing the gloom,
Soft lustred;
Turning grey to blush pink
Like cotton candy spun
with golden thread,
Incandescent
To central orb.
Quintrain
Exploring this Japanese form to describe my winter visitors – a little flock of Long tailed tits that fly across each morning to the feeders right at the top of the garden by the field – never near the house. They are so trusting and come far closer than any other birds.
Waiting…
Watchful and still,
In bobbing flight they come,
Six birds,long-tailed,a hair’s breath close
Then gone.
Faraway Lane
Undulating with twist and turn
Snake like
It stretches out before
Steeply banked on either side
Afforded by
An occasional glimpse
Punctuating the line
As gateways
Open
Across the valley slopes
Soft green and pastoral
To the filigreed trees on the
Opposite ridge
Before leaning
Once again
Into the depths of the sunken world
Footworn
Dark and closed
Deep and secluded where air is stilled
Hidden
With an ancient feel
Of ferns and moss
where brown leaves
Sweet and dark conceal
And fronds of the Harts tongue Spit
Acid green
Above Polygonum tightly coiled
And something scuttles unseen
with just the slightest rustle
And gone
As there’s everywhere to hide
Everywhere to go
A sharp call
Draws attention skyward
Some 12 feet along the top of the hedge
Fieldfares - a flock
Bounce along in flight
From tree to tree
like a sentence running to a full stop
always just ahead
Never far away
Home is just ahead
But I am far away.
Into a new beginning
Punctually, without slowing
The world on axis turns
Resolute with resolutions non affirming
In silence spins its cadence
undeterred
Across the world
A global celebration
As fireworks light the darkness of the skies
As from Pacific to the North Atlantic
The calendar turns,the date baptised.
And so I wish you a Happy New Year
Into this Night
Stratus and silhouette
A feint glow over the western sky
A distant nod to encroaching urban sprawl
Defining the line
Like a dragon’s back
The moorland ridge
Sets solidity
Under the wideness of the sky
Anchoring the land
Silence and reverential stillness
Pervade the night
Only the softest of breath
Of the sleeping world
Whispers of memories
Spill across the pillow
As slumber is stirred
Yet nothing moves
The walls are still
Unusually so
There is no wind
Nothing
Just the fine thread
Between heaven and earth
But into this night
I listen
In Melchior’s path
In curious pursuit of frankincense
Resin pure like gold
Fingers trace the spines of ancient books
Span continents through age and time
Apothecaries of old take venerable ways and new
Woody tones and spices blend
Mystical distillation to essential oil
Mysterious cure in inflammatory response
Elicitation from astrologers sphere
Carried to the crib
Great in mystery of faith
Worship and offering divine
Perfumed incense wafted high
Worthy of a king
A precious elixir in my hand
To give.
Crafted by the typist beside the River Thames
I came across two lovely men sat beside the River Thames, beside the Globe Theatre ( Shakespeare’s place) with vintage typewriters tapping away with rhythm. Beside them a stand . Poet for hire – give whatever you feel.
We talked a little I chose the thoughts: faith, hope and love and he wrote silently for five minutes.
The joy of poetry abounds.
For hundreds of years this skill has been handed down from one to another.
Ruth Partridge 