Under Storm Clouds

A storm cloud swells as heaven sighs 
Where ribbon of grey threads the skies
Clouds are heavy,dense,opaque
In shades of blue and streaks of slate.

The light beneath a fleeting trace  
Entangled in the storm’s  embrace
Intense the green of fields below
A shifting patchwork all aglow. 

Contrasts illuminate and define 
In every brushstroke, mark and line
Veil of rain,intense in hail 
Of elemental  storm and gale
Storm clouds over Holberton

Unseen

If I can stand a while in thought, and trance
The clouds away to brighter clearer skies; 
Along the lane I’ll  run and glimpse a passing glance 
Afforded in return a valuable surprise.

The hedges tall ensconced  with  bramble, 
Sink sunken lanes devoid of any view;
But every now  and then like rhythmic punctuation rambles,     
A gateway lights a  beacon shining through.

Beyond the gate the land just melts away,
A steep, yet sheep- worn slope  to  valley floor; 
A pasture managed and preserved in time,until today; 
Through successive generations to folklore.

For how long unseen this   landscape escapes the plough? 
For now I simply wonder  at the beauty afforded now.
My glimpses through the four gates of the lane to Lincombe

Quintrain

Exploring this Japanese form to describe my winter visitors – a little flock of Long tailed tits that fly across each morning to the feeders right at the top of the garden by the field – never near the house. They are so trusting and come far closer than any other birds.

Waiting… 
Watchful and still,
In bobbing flight they come,
Six birds,long-tailed,a hair’s breath close 
Then gone.

Faraway Lane

Undulating with twist and turn
Snake like 
It stretches out before
Steeply banked on either side
Afforded by 
An occasional glimpse
Punctuating the line
As gateways
Open 
Across the valley slopes
Soft green and pastoral
To the filigreed trees on the 
Opposite ridge
Before leaning
Once again 
Into the  depths of the sunken world 
Footworn
Dark and closed 
Deep and secluded where air is stilled 
Hidden
With an ancient feel
Of ferns and moss
where brown leaves
Sweet and dark  conceal
And fronds of the Harts tongue Spit 
Acid green  
Above Polygonum tightly coiled
And something  scuttles unseen
with just  the slightest rustle
And gone  
As there’s everywhere to hide
Everywhere to go
A sharp call
Draws attention skyward 
Some 12 feet along the top of the hedge 
Fieldfares - a flock
Bounce along in flight 
From tree to tree
like a sentence running to a full stop
always just ahead 
Never far away
Home is just ahead 
But I am far away.


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.