It was his Birthday

Written is response to the http://www.ekphrastic.net for the ekphrastic challenge : Van Gogh Starry Night . 



It was his Birthday 

It was his birthday 
When thinking becomes joined up 
And is more than black and white
It was his birthday when the 
Lines of traffic merged in a continuous Stream somewhere along the A38 
When electric blue sent sirens down the Road in rotating motion and 
Vapour trails slipped from  white to Gold in laminar flow                  And twisted strands 
Merged their course and conjured stars From spun cotton candy
It was his birthday when the sky turned Dark and the trees took 
Shapes of chess pieces mid game.       And flecks of white blew clouds from   Stranded cars                            Into darkness   

And he was still not home


It was his birthday.

Storm through the Night

All through the night – relentless and totally dark. Our 375 year house sits on a high ridge and it does feel like we are sometimes under siege .

A gusting wind
Exhales in bursts 
The rain 
Like knives spears the dark
Ricochets off ancient walls.
To the keeper of the keys. 

The pulsating night
Drinks in thirst
The slates
Vibrate in constant thrum 
Relentless cries those riven squalls
This castle under siege.

The Kingdom of the Grey


Beneath the woodland floor
You look for more 
Stare at the grey:
A moon from outer space;
 

Another web ;another world
Skeins unfurled 
Drawn of fine strands
And white fungal lace; 


I could trance the soil away
See The kingdom of the grey
Appear now and then
Gossamer threads that trace.

Inspired after reading a chapter of Underland by Robert Macfarlane this morning .

Trace fossils fill the void

Trace fossils carried with us
Marks of those we loved, and those we did not ever know;
Faded handwriting on an envelope 
A string of pearls broken though 
Worn crests on silver cutlery 
Names and places 
Census returns
Trace is what we carry- what we yearn 
Like the map on our skin
Filling the void left behind  .

Red Sky in Morning

The blush pink sky twists the forecast
Wrapping the clouds in ominous hue
There’s clarity in warning
The air is still
Birdsong is active
Shrill cries of the blackbird cut through
Too sharp are the angulations of the fields
Carving lines of clipped brown hedges with shards of gold
Acid green are the fields 
Under the low winter sun
Transient patterns 
About to change to
A wall of grey.

Happy New Year

Well another year of highs and lows.

The Highs : publishing my book of poetry -, the arrival of whippet puppy Pepper , our daughter’s graduation which had been postponed for a year, the new greenhouse for the garden.

Running in the Slow Lane

The lows 12 months ago today we said a final goodbye to Dad at a covid restricted funeral. I have taught through two lockdowns this year facing weeks of online lessons and endless recording . 12 months on and we still face restrictions and uncertainty.

We pray for a better 2022 and thank all of you for your tremendous support of my poetry. I have loved being part of this very special community.