The lane in the roar of the Gale

Filigreed tips of naked branches  
Strain
Against the roar of the gale;
A solitary crow- in futile flight-
Relinquishes its path 
Carried by the current
On a different plane;
Carrying the ghostly
Conversations  of ancient miners 
Who trudged this route 
In twilight hours
As darkness and grey mist 
Descend
Deep into the sunken lane
Where carpets of spongy moss creep
Over sodden  branches and roots;
And dripping  ferns plug every gap.
Pot -hole riven,
The single track is stretched in girth and lined in running orange stain
Of tractor tread,
Leaching from the ancient banks
Punctuated only  by gateways
Splayed wide open 
Straining on the hinges
That hold them.

Who Really Knows Me?


Thoughts and entanglements from the limits of my mind 
Within in the cerebral cortex; 
Fissured and deep
The folded contours
The map of my life
In laminar flow across
Hemispheres;
Woven, those gossamer threads,
Tangled wires of emotion,
Beads 
Of thought
Which link us to places
Long buried;
When awakened, they
Resurface, fragmented
From the hidden depths.

Each of us carries
The map of our lives
On our skin 
In the way that we move 
In the people we meet.
Recognisable 
Of that inner cognition?
Or refined and guarded
A manicured exterior?
The mirror’s reflection,
Intricately complicated,
So I hardly know myself,
And yet in One 
I am fully known
For we are beautifully and 
Wonderfully made.

Estuary


I turned my face to the sweeping sky
And the breeze drawn by the 
Eddying current;
I traced the snaking curve
Of the channel;
I watched the light play on
The mirrored surfaces-
Tiny rivulets spread like fingers
In the mud,
As Sandpipers picked their way 
With bobbing heads;
Their matchstick legs,
Angular and straight;
And beyond,a flock of avocets,
Their curved beaks
Stabbing like needles;
And wondered if their collective
Gathering was convivial;
Two geese nonchalantly grazed,
Comfortable together;
I looked across to ancestral roots
And connected to 
The view its beauty dawned.

Saving the Slapton Line

The Slapton Line is a narrow stretch of the A379 road that connects Torcross to Dartmouth. It is unique in running beside the sea on one side ( Slapton Sands ) and Slapton Ley ( a large body of freshwater of important scientific interest) . Many of my poems are inspired from this beautiful beach .

With every winter storm we now see the sand swept onto the road and the protecting boulders moved by the surge of the sea. Last year huge chunks of the road were washed away and the road was closed for months . If it is breached again, there will be no more repair and the road will be gone and the Ley will we swallowed by the sea.

Last night it was volunteers who worked through the night to save it ; the council had said wait until Monday .

Day to Night- from the Window

With stealth the darkness creeps
And seals the day
With hardly a difference of 
Day from night;
Ink black rooks
From their roost 
Take flight,
Circle, then return to the
Same bare branches
Silhouetted against
The soot grey sky;
Wintery sleet
Falls;
The cold seeps
Through every gap;
Even the log fire
Struggles in the grate; 
There is no wind 
Just empty blackness.

Hope, Light, Love and Rainbows


There’s always hope 
If we’re brave enough to
Feel it;
Light if we open our eyes
To reveal it;
Love if we allow our hearts 
To receive it
And tears
(enough to fill the sea)
To prove it.
Jewels in plenty to redeem
Life in all abundance awaits 
But patience awards
Those who wisdom have
With knowledge that
We are not alone.
Together we press on.
Remembering the rainbow 
In the sky.

A Winter Paradox

A latent sun 
Which late had risen 
Seeping through the mist
Dissipated and weak in appreciation 
An embodiment 
Of apologetic proportion 
Lack lustre in warmth
Through which a murmuration
Of starlings flew 
In laminar flow across 
The far western sky
In mesmerising contorted pattern
Theatrical  synchronisation
Above the Slapton Line.
Photo by Hazel Strange