My Foot in Theirs

Orginally written for the Earle Richardson Ekphrastic Review Writing Challenge:

https://www.ekphrastic.net/ekphrastic-writing-challenges

Employment of African-Americans in Agriculture, by Earle Richardson (USA) 1934

My Foot in Theirs

Could these be footprints long hardened in rock ?
 I wondered as I stepped on the mound;
 The lives once defined in the sand- coloured clay, 
 Hard spent under the glare of the sun.
 I closed my eye to imagine
 Striped cloth in line with regimental row,
 Determination and order: the strength of the women 
 Upright and strong defining conformity 
 Robed and stooped  but not in submission,
 In dutiful bond
 Stepping in unison , labouring hard
 United in pose, in colour and creed
 Protective
 Protected? – a different question 
 Unshod in slavery’s emblazoned position 
 Cotton picking but singing forbidden, 
 Irrespective of age, lives bought for a price;
 What when they’re gone 
 Like imprints on sand, 
 Slavery scrubbed out like a stain on the land?
 But the footprints were there, 
 I’d seen them, I knew
 The contoured maps 
 Of lives on their skin 
 In the way that they moved in the toil that they did;
 Ashamed what the price of freedom meant 
 I thought as 
 I planted my foot in their place.

Wild Flight of the Geese


Contours slip from a world
Parallel and synchronised in beat
And motion 
Their flight is straight
Suspended in the void
Half arrowed in formation
Skimming  the rooftop
Near-grazing the slate
Mighty Hercules of the flight 
Heavy with  beat of the wing
No navigation aid to site 
Still and blue 
Their playground is
Driven on by diurnal force
Over the edge with 
Complete precision 
Tattooed wing
Charts the lives in their vision.

Poems in Print

I am excited to tell you that thanks to all your interest and support, I have delved into publishing and had the courage to proceed .

This has been my journey over the past year, discovering how to use language to describe what I see and think.

I have been the English lead at school for years, encouraging generations of children to love language and to write, without actually writing anything more than the models I do for them. For the first time I have practised what I preach!

With no option but to walk and run locally during Lockdown One, I started to observe more and learnt to relish being out in the open , alone with time to think. Words come to me as I am running. I started to write them down and then they became the focus of my blog ( and the running not as much ). I rethought the intentions of my website and have really enjoyed blogging. It has been a hugely exciting journey and I have been amazed at how my poetry has been received.

My thanks go to all who have encouraged me on the way, especially to author, Jane Dougherty who gave me such a lot of support and advice on how to self- publish and Sheena McCready who has encouraged, shared interests , walks and friendship on this journey .

So here is the link to purchasing my new book : Running in the Slow Lane

Running Home

Poems always start when I’m out running . Tonight I took this picture at 4km and the light was going – I ended up doing 9.5km and the last stretch up the ‘ thinking lane’ was in total darkness to our house on the ridge. 


Darkness enveloped 
Just primroses lit the way
Branches mirrored in blackened puddles 
The v shaped valley defined
And the sharp siren of geese in flight
High above, the ridge
Fringed with the waning light
Nocturnal animals take their cue
I’m still running home.

Subtle Change

Tightly wrapped 
From sight 
Amidst
A world preoccupied  
Beneath leaden skies and rain
A sense of stealth prevails   
In the darkness
Across a  slightly lengthened day
A stirring 
The pallid canvas is being altered
With strokes of green
A snowdrop carpet covers the soil
Smudge of yellow stain marks early daffodils
Subtlety in detail 
There was no announcement made.

Not fully light 
And the thrush is heard 
Elusive too is she 
Piles of shells
Her calling card.
But what of the artist
Where is he?

The Chime of the Clock

The chime of the clock 
And I’m back: 

The elegant hall,
Portraits in ranked position,
Hopscotch over the shapes
In the worn Persian rug
(It was ancient even then);
The smoke from the drawing room,
Jovial military voices,
Academic conversation
The silver, polished and ready, 
The sound of the gong;
Seated promptly at table
Strict instruction given:
The correct cutlery,
Straight back,
Arms off table
Routine.

Artefacts endure
(Even the rug)
The clock repaired,
Voices, long silenced;
Time has passed,
A different house,
The clock ticks on.








They say animals have wisdom

The cat 
She has learnt:
Take each day as it comes; 
Silently she sits and looks out 
From the sill, 
Serene and calm
In thought; 
Still the weather does not change 
She asks for the door 
She surveys, 
The wind on her fur,
The dampness on a paw,
Daintily she shakes it off
And draws back inside, 
A repeated ritual 
Until resigned 
To a neatly made bed;
She retreats
To sleep;
She has learned to be still; 
She has patience
When plans are changed; 
I must learn patience
Like the cat.