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.
In Quietude
In quietude
Day by day
Change in subtlety stirs
As textures fill
And colours spill
Before our eyes
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
Ruth Partridge 