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

Rule of Three

The rule of three a writer's trick
Memory facilitated,
Three facts, that's it. 

In children's stories, threes found here,
The Three Little Pigs
The Three Musketeers.

In fiction we remember three
Beginning, middle and end agreed.
A story group- a trilogy.

A Narrative that shows progression
Built up with tension 
Then released  invention.

Even  stooges came in three
Shakespeare made good use of these.
A student learns with ease.

Letters too  have this restriction 
Salutation
And valediction.

There's strength in three for sermon too
Three points made, then conclude
Expected rule
To err would fool.

Consider other speeches then, 
'Friends, Romans, Countrymen!'
Slogans Pen: 
Stop Drop Roll,
The 3 Rs toll,
Three  goals.

There's power of three
Makes a cube 
Rigidity of strength imbued.
Take a power away and strength is lost.
A flat square is not as strong.
Power gone.

Three-leaved clover, a fourth is rare;
Nature's power of three is there,
Three elements in air.

The Bible too has symbols then:
The three wise men,
The cockerel crowed three times again.
The third hour,the third day,
Three times in the garden at Gethsemane
The disciples forgot to pray. 

Father, Son and Spirit given
At Trinity the power from heaven 
Omnipotence is riven. 

Omnipresent
Omniscience
Power over all with love is meant.

A triune God of one in three
Blessed Holy Trinity.
The rule of three. 

Ruth Partridge

Hidden Secrets

All is calm below 
The soughing trees above 
Protect this hidden space 
The depths I've learnt to love.
 
Richness in these lanes
Hold such secret there,
A hidden wealth of nature 
Makes me linger there. 

Echoes in the wind; 
Gentleness beneath the trees ;
Vibrancy beheld;
The beauty of the leaves. 

Pastel shades of green 
Whispered feathers blown.
Muted creatures stirred
The lane gives up its throne.
 
The secret lives it holds 
Twisted stories it could tell
of folk who walked its path
This lane I know so well.

After Rain

This inspiration came by running last evening just after a heavy shower had passed. I’ve been waiting to finish work to write it down!

A pastel glow beneath the heavy sky
Signals a sign of change. 
Warmth descends to valley floor; 
All nature held in the spell of rain. 

Breathe deep.

Droplets jewel from the fronds of ferns;
Earthy smell from moss and stone 
Heightens senses in this place; 
The knowledge of being quite alone.

Breathe deep.

In this world of darkened state
Of hidden boughs laid low
Musk of fox, rank smell of decay 
Spires of foxglove bright pink aglow. 

Breathe deep.

The tremoring call of the lark, 
A bird which  cannot be seen 
So high it flies above; 
The silhouette of the hare
On sodden field of green. 

Breathe deep. 

All nature seems awakened
The shower  for  now  has passed.  
Swallows skim close to the ground
Refreshment , nourishment
Elixir of life is found. 

Breathe deep. 

Ruth Partridge

Summer Rain

 A leaden sky
 dark grey marauds
 against
the brightness of the morning. 
A stillness;
time suspended;
all nature  waits.

Slow to fall 
the sound awakens,
perceptions heightened.
Olfactory senses  stirred by 
 primeval  smells 
of spores released.
A reawakening -
nature's release.
Rejuvenation or decay, 
water replenishes.

Droplets quicken- 
a move to a different
  tempo.
Sounds intensify against hard earth.
Nature responds:
Birds quieten, 
Plants stand tall,
Colours intensify
 against the grey.  

 With gentleness it falls ,
The weathervane redundant;
Windless 
Slow moving 
Thirst quenching
Life-giving.

Into pools and rivulets, 
streams in the lane,
each droplet  finding its course,
Repurposed,
Focused.

For each living thing
hydration.
Repurposed, 
Focused,
Changed.  

Ruth Partridge

Early Summer Run

A dusty road snaking down
 To sound of constant whine.
The rumbling sound of trailers carried,
Grass-cutting is the sign
Of summer in this ancient lane- 
A vein off an artery.
None will know that this exists
Save those whose lane it be.

To run this route is less well known 
But beautiful all the same.
It slopes away beneath the hill 
Contouring is this lane.
So stride is long and metres swift
From top to valley floor.
The river is a welcome sight,
The shade of trees assured. 

The river's sound is pleasant now-
A soft flow through the gorge.
Slabs of stone are now revealed
Undercut by constant force.
Sparkling water runs so clear
And tempting it would be 
To take a dip within its depths
As it glints and beckons me.

Instead the view of houses
Perched up on the hill;
The choice is there- short and steep-
Or even longer still.
Past the old kiln cottages 
The true height though is hidden 
A laboured run up the narrow track 
Roughly worn and pot hole riven.

This, an hour, is not so long
 As others on my rounds,
But offers up the best in choice
of running steep hills down.
The shelter though and trees contrast
And the river is a dream
And often favoured is this way
To run a while unseen.

Ruth Partridge