In a world where
Winds rush
Across the globe
Tornadoes spin across the Atlantic
Whirl with centrifugal force
The jet-stream snakes
An arch of white
And black meets white
And white meets black
Colours that merge
Against the brilliance of
The western sky
A painted picture of gloss
Over a stained undercoat
Smart suits and cases
Tell the narrative
A thousand hopes
Of streets paved in gold
Turn to monochrome
And a darker story
That’s black and white
unfolds
uncomfortably
And the grey skies darken
And rain falls
On the sodden ground
As winds rush
Across the Atlantic
And tornados spin
Back home
Hidden Writing of a Ten – Year – Old
In front of my eyes
Yet shielding the sight
Or tangible grasp
Grasping the pen
Like holding a joystick
Scrambled words spill onto
A wobbly page
Of incomplete line.
His hand hides the view
Ink stains the white
What won’t he show?
His thoughts,though deep
Edited through speech
Deliberate for effect
Tries to impress
Complex but incomplete.
Hidden agenda
A gamer’s world
Of stories and action
An endless stream
With no resolution
Without punctuation.
Sometimes I just can’t fathom out how to get a child’s writing to the expected standard. When they hide what they are writing it becomes a whole lot harder.
Earth Day – One Gift for All
The Earth has a pulse
We are connected to it
This is our song
Spring Contrasts
Pocketed by the glove of fog
The day slips into a world of white
Where even the birds
Are silent
And remain unseen.
There’s a pointedness
In the roughened fingers of wind
That wrap around the western walls
Causing slender branches to dance
Beneath the misted pane.
The old roof nods to the wind
Passing through
Slates rattle and timbers shift
Rain courses
The ground,a sodden carpet
Of patterned hue
Is washed and faded
And is hung out.
Yet below the saturated soil
Threads begin to stitch
Embroidering fine roots of white
As Spring cannot be stolen
And sap laces its way
To return the world to green.
Songs in the Night
The radiance of day slips into the Shadow of night
Tunes carry over the still air
From the barn on the hill
Where spangled lights
Interchange
Through the gap in the trees
Etched black
On the fringe of the wood
Which steals the breath
Of the wind
And carries the song
In my heart.
In the Garden- beneath our Feet
Hewn by worm casts
And labouring fork
Sifted through the gardener’s hand
The dampness lingers under
ancient ferns
Yet to be unfurled;
A primeval world of
Sweet fungal spores
Connected to the dawn of time
Of process and precision
And small detail;
Tiny seedlings pushing through
Lifting crumbs and flakes of bark
and stones
Inconspicuous
But with power to change;
Drawn from darkness
To a world of light;
A gentleness
Where thoughts are stilled
And noise is ceased;
Connected to
The wonder of creation
Beneath our feet
When we kneel to touch it.
Plum Tree Among the Skyscrapers
Simon Armitage is the new Poet Laureate and I love his poem to welcome Spring.
By Simon Armitage
Through the Window
Transient the grainy grey of
Morning
Slips unnoticed into view
Shrillness carried on the ribbon of birdsong
Cuts through the grey bluish hue.
Dense the mist in blanket form
A shrouded cover to cloak the sod
A distant measure all but hidden
Etched fingers of branches held aloft.
From the Forest Floor
Drawn on whispered breath
Of wind
The scent of pine
On upturned branches
Caressed by
The sentiment
Of a winter sun
Channeling the
Powder blue
Funnel of sky.
Spent leaves of Autumn
Spun into
Drifts of
Gold carpet
Crunch
Under soft feet
Startling a wood pigeon
Breaking the spell.
When we escape the wind, mist and rain that we’ve had all day and venture North East 30 mins to find a completely different day. Pepper the Whippet hates rain -what a joy to find dry leaves!
February Mist
When fog hangs over us , as so often it does on the 300 ft contour , why are we always surprised to find a different day as we drop down into the valley?
Entrenched, enshrouded
In mist so thick
The sun,obscured devoid of light
Darkened boughs hang low
Under the rain -filled cloud
Lanes stain red
As mud leaches
And yet to know
The day is lightened
As the silvered light
Shines through in golden glow
That paints the wayside green
In the valley down below.
Ruth Partridge 