Shadows

Shadows form;
Charcoal stains splash across the road; 
Light is obscured
Thrown into darkness,
Hidden.
Shadows grow;
As daylight lengthens 
A tree in shadow 
Solidified,
its strength intensified;
Patterns play on surfaces, 
Undersides in darkness 
Silvered above.
Shadows define
The light at the end
Of a tunnel of trees;
The pattern of stone 
In a wall.
Shadows hide 
Those who don’t want to be seen.




The Slapton Line

Long sweeping curve of the bay 
Thread of yellow 
Meets mist 
And foreboding cloud
Disappearing into a charcoal sky. 
Whipped up waves 
Churn against the shoreline;
Light plays on the ever changing surface 
Of indigo and grey;
A constant movement of the beast 
A heaving mass of rolling wave
Surges and falls;
Hides the creatures that live beneath its surface.
No sign of porpoise or seal,
And where is that great Leviathan we once saw? 
When eyes trained for hours 
Were rewarded with 
That great spout of water and arch of the tail;
That spectacle so great;
Nothing today but
Random  illusions from
Effervescent forces, 
The  damp wind in the face
And  voices blown away on salted air.

Haiku pattern – Tables Turned


At the end of March
We stepped off the planet
The world kept turning.

Our pace had to slow
With endless restrictions
Nature stayed at work.

We began to notice 
Sounds so more distinctive 
We listened more.

Birds became louder- 
The blackbird, wren and thrushes?
You just thought that way! 

We had quietened
And so insightful we saw more 
That was nature’s gain.

Unhindered by us 
Nature continued growing
The tables were turned.

What when this all ends- 
Will we forget this learning?
We owe it to the earth.

Storm Approaching

Clouds of grey are churning 
High above in stratus;
Soughing of trees increases
With punctuated stopping
Under heaviness awaited.
Intensity foreboding;
Drawn to be outside 
To feel the storm approaching 
To feel the pressure dropping 
Into deep depression;
Oppressiveness in air 
A world more monochrome;
The road joins the sky;
Hedges lean in closer.
An air of caution heeded
With Heavy drop of rain 
The turning off of light 
Foliage  hanging heavy 
Birds going quiet.

Walk to Lydia Bridge

An ancient bridge 
Spans moorland gorge
Deep running 
Clawing at the rock;
Smooth worn boulders 
Undercut 
And crystal pools 
Dark hollows block;
A cobbled path will take us still,
Smooth worn by constant tread;
Age old route beside the river 
Leads up to Lydia Mill.
Moss covered rocks line the way
Tumbling along its line;
Trees overgrown and leafy shrubs
Restrict this view of mine.
Sheep though graze beneath the boughs
To shelter from the rain,
Tucked in and hidden well
Till showers have passed again.
The way,though short,is special still
What waits is worth a view;
The water tumbles down with force
Primeval smells of  damp earth ensue. 
The climb is short 
An ancient stile
Of stone is at the ridge;
Beside darkened pools the final task 
To reach this ancient bridge.

A walk along the Shore

 
Awakened with  childlike anticipation, 
the world gives way 
to a shimmering haze of blue. 

An empty swathe of pale gold sand 
meets the eye and 
catches the breath
with a haunting beauty. 

Wind-blown and almost deserted,
but for
a solitary figure some way West.
A setting unheard of
but these are exceptional times. 

As if stripped of all unnecessary
accoutrement of human activity,
unadorned  
where land meets the sea.

Fine dust and grit from an onshore wind,
A translucent sea
held still and glistening;
soft, turquoise blue- 
a sheen against a pastel sky.
Cool sun
and gentle beams of light
cast shimmering lines
on the water surface
as it 
gently tickles the shore.
A shallow skin of water 
forming undulating pattern 
of shifting sand
and rhythms
play 
under the ever-changing sky;
shadows modifying the colour 
in a mesmerising way, 
Ribbons of blue green stain.

A gust of wind 
entombs 
faded footprints
which lead to water's edge.
Intuitively,
drawn to follow,
we too sink feet 
and set  our footprints there 
in perfect line;
our pattern is the same.

And with flattened stones
Sea- worn smooth 
in palms,
we skim the mirrored surface
and watch the spring
on the meniscus
spit and ripple. 
Concentric circles 
widen
to dissipating pattern
repeated as we play.
Instinctive is  the need 
to hold a shell 
or turn 
sea glass in the hand.
These are tactile pleasures
reciprocated every visit
on a walk along the shoreline.

We tread lightly:
take nothing but the air,
the freedom of the open space, 
our voices on the wind. 
sand in the hair, 
the breath of the sea ,
the memory in our DNA.    
 

Ruth Partridge