Let the light glow
Into the obsidian
Turn one grey pebble
Open the book and turn
The page
Rule a clean line
Start a new day.
Sunday slow run
Out came the hat and fluorescent jacket and 6.5 km completed but have lost my Fitbit – it doesn’t feel like it counted!
Wet, muddy and getting dark, but restorative nonetheless.
Islands of existence
Like an island chain-
An archipelago
Are we islands of existence?
Do our minds separate-
Compartmentalise?
Hold onto secrets of the past
Sailing to when we’re adrift?
Memories we return to
Like favoured holidays past?
Ferry crossings back and forth
Until we leave for good?
Or strands we take with us on our journey;
Connections, patterns,identities
Drawn through time and space
Threads of gossamer tracing the stars
In laminar flow;
Those we love
Those we meet
Those we pass
A twinkling light
A warning flare
Perchance we cross
Or is it so?
The chart etched out in perfect ordinance
Each choice is ours
Each decision
Freely given
To navigate those paths
With love.
Latin isn’t dead
Latin isn’t dead ; it’s immortal.
Carpe diem !
The broken shoreline
A walk along the broken shoreline;
The ragged waves crash against the rise;
Wind and rain drive
Near horizontal;
The spray is mixed with mist
Along the line.
The grey sea ever deepens in its movement
The sky sinks closer to it still;
The noise grinds relentless in the union;
Spirits are lifted higher than before.
Woodland in Splendour
Branches- pendulous and jewelled-
Leaf dots of orange and yellow,
Stippled against silvery papered
Slender trunks;
The birch- a key player on the woodland edge;
Along the track we
Descend steeply into
The dense forest-
Alight with fiery glow
Above the wide smooth trunks of beech;
A kaleidoscope of colour-
Ambers and tortoiseshell-
Vintage greens and golds
Knit the canopy above
Like fairy lights;
Dense Holly
Statuesque below
Holds bright berries above
Glossy leaves
The woodland floor
Is carpeted by a
Deep dry fallen leaves
Bright limed fronds of ferns and moss
Cling to the forest banks
The purple smudges of whortleberries
Are long gone
Glimpsed through broken foliage
Filigreed fingers
Across the valley
Where Bare trees
Naked
Line the ridge
Their form with distinct shapes
Textbook drawn.
Woodland in splendour.
Footsteps without Words
The eye is drawn
To capture
The broad sky
Soft haze of the shoreline
The filtered light
The beauty
Of defined grandeur.
The ear is drawn
To rhythmic motion
Sounds without calls
Powerful and resolute
The heart is drawn
To footsteps without words.
Be still my soul.
Light on a stormy Sea
The pearlescent sun of
Softly filtered light
Shines through the
Spume filled air
Waves toss the flurries
Into sheltered coves
Funnelling foam upwards
Like snowflakes
To the tops of cliffs
Above the noise of the sea
Nothing can be heard
As waves thunder and pound
With every ebb and flow
In mesmerising movement
The camera fails to catch
The churning of the sea
The call of the tide
The retreat of the waves
Just beauty of the scene
A moment of serenity
Amidst the storm.
This bleak Day
Rain greases the pane
A steady sound on the roof glass
It’s not yet light
Yet the day ahead feels bleak
A day clearing my father’s house
Same pattern; same house
That overwhelming feeling
Stealthily creeps into the grey hours
It’s a job to be done.
That’s my mantra.
Slow traffic and misted windscreens
Moving in time to the radio beat.
Was it ‘72 or ‘74?
The quiz goes on
Traffic at a standstill somewhere
On the M5.
Once stuck in,the hours dissipate
Time is measured by trips to the tip
The bin bags we’ve filled
Inch by inch a room is cleared
Memories charged
Then lives erased
Leaving no trace
Swallowed in black plastic
Ironical really
For a family that tried to use less
Here is more
Fifty years to recycle
To Landfill
Guilt merges with forgiveness
The house is released.
It fees redemptive.
Until we go again.
The rain intensifies
It’s still dark.
Look for me by Moonlight
The paper- white moon
Paper thin
Hangs in the powder blue sky
A clean saucer with
Milky white edge
Due East
Against a sky to the West
Alight with evening glow
Ghostly grey shapes rise
South West
Cauliflower topped rising to steep anvils
Flame -laced as singed by blacksmith’s forge
Like galleons broadside for battle
Clear silhouettes of
Naked trees
Behind which the moon now rises
‘The road ‘is’ a ribbon of moonlight’
Words loved and familiar come to the fore
Tonight the owl will fly
It’s call will be sharp in the October air
Highwaymen still may ride
The light will see them home.
Ruth Partridge 