Into this Night

Stratus and silhouette
A feint glow  over the western sky
A distant nod to encroaching urban sprawl
Defining the line
 
Like a dragon’s back
The moorland ridge
Sets solidity
Under the wideness of the sky
Anchoring the land

Silence and reverential stillness
Pervade the night
Only the  softest of breath
Of the sleeping world

Whispers of memories 
Spill across the pillow
As slumber is stirred

Yet nothing moves
The walls are still
Unusually so
There is no wind
Nothing
Just the fine thread 
Between heaven and earth

But into this night 
I listen

In Melchior’s path

In curious pursuit of frankincense 
Resin pure like gold
Fingers trace the spines of ancient books
Span continents through age and time 
Apothecaries of old take venerable   ways and new
Woody tones and spices blend
Mystical distillation to essential oil
Mysterious cure in inflammatory response
Elicitation from astrologers sphere
Carried to the crib
Great in mystery of faith
Worship and offering divine
Perfumed incense wafted high
Worthy of a king
A precious elixir in my hand
To give.

Crafted by the typist beside the River Thames

I came across two lovely men sat beside the River Thames, beside the Globe Theatre ( Shakespeare’s place) with vintage typewriters tapping away with rhythm. Beside them a stand . Poet for hire – give whatever you feel.

We talked a little I chose the thoughts: faith, hope and love and he wrote silently for five minutes.

Here it is. What a wonderful idea and so many people were asking for them to write for them .

The joy of poetry abounds.

For hundreds of years this skill has been handed down from one to another.

Remembrance – Silence

Silence at the cenotaph 
All along the widest street 
Silence in the churches 
At 11, the people meet
Silence in the poppies
Grown on Flanders’s fields
Worn with pride with medals
Memories slow to heal 
Silence on the Somme
No rifle shot was heard
Silence that was frightening 
Silence that was feared
Silence causing numbness
Silence causing pain 
Death before the silence 
Thereafter
Hope again.

Sonnet- Autumn

If I could slow the moving tide of Autumn, 
Stop each and every leaf  prepared to fall;
Would I miss the fading hues verbatim,
The beauty in the colours of perennials tall?
Chattering, the swallows meet too soon to fly;
Patterned forms stir beauty in striation; 
The buzzard shrieks an urgency of cry;
Across open land, a shadowed murmuration. 

How could I not lament the  shortening of the  daylight, 
The hours that shift the balance of the skies ?
The silvered glow over jewelled ground by moonlight;
Breathtaking,the Northern lights, majestic in our eyes;
These things of beauty I could not miss  in hindsight;
This gradual change and rhythm a revelatory surprise.

I have entered this poem for the National Poetry Organisation Annual Competition.

Where The River Meets the Sea

Consider the birds for they neither reap nor sow …. consider the lilies of the field how they grow; they neither toil or spin.

Why worry ? Matt chp 6

So when I paint, I consider the beauty of what I see in all of nature and today I thought there is nothing grander or more humbling than to see the majesty of the sea. And as I look and as I paint, I try to capture the feel of a place,the light the colours, the lines, the plane. Working in an abstract way brought freedom and challenge but ultimately connects me to a place and when we think of those special places of meaning to us, worries disappear.

Where the river meets the sea

Wounded

They say time heals the soul
An open wound needs some care: 
I write it down
I pray aloud 
I sit at the piano 
And sing it loud 
I run in the lanes
I shout to the wind
I swim in the sea 
And call to the clouds
As I cut through the waves
Salt sticks to my hair
As I swim out into the river
The ice cold wraps my core
The feeling’s intense
At one with the elements
Stress lifts
Above the canopy of green
The spirit is free.
The wound can be healed.