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    Behind the Lies

     

    Behind him, the curses rose

    as the land lay bleeding.

     

    Behind him, one day

    poppies would bloom,

     

    but now the earth was weeping.

     

    The sky rained metal and agony

    and the earth swallowed the bones.

     

    One day there will be no more poppies,

    the fields themselves all gone,

     

    or poisoned, or the air too dry

    and brittle, or the rain will swallow

     

    everything.

     

     

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    Samhain

     

    I want to light a fire

    to welcome in the winter

    to rekindle the warming of my hearth

     

    but my story-tellers

    are all gone beyond this land

     

    my garden wood is wet

    weeping the inclemency of this year

     

    and my chimney has not been swept.

     

    So I will make do

    with candle flames

    small essences and orange scents

     

    and a nest of hopefulness.

     

     

    ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~~ ~ ~~ ~

    image Ghost Nest

    (Angela Sandwith, Durham Lumiere, 2023)

     

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    A Thousand Prayers

     

    A thousand prayers

    from a thousand lonely hearts

     

    children torn from parents,

    and elders dying alone,

     

    a thousand prayers

    from a thousand souls alone

     

    who didn’t know their family

    their tribe, their belonging.

     

    Those thousand prayers

    were surely heard

     

    in the hills and across the plains.

    Surely, they swam in river song.

     

    They thousand prayers were

    the beginning of us all

    finding our way home.

     

     

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    Hacking back

     

    After such an abundant harvest

    I am desolate, at hacking so harshly,

    taking all your growth back to the ground

     

    And you retaliate in biting, scratching,

    insinuating tiny black thorns beneath my skin,

    to fester if I don’t dig them out with needles

    and iodine and antiseptic wipes and cream,

     

    and the hope you will forgive me, will grow

    again next year, reclaim the fence-line

    that looks so winter-bare…

     

    …I want you there.

     

    Come back in the spring, take over,

    climb and clamber and weave your wicked

    way and gift me flowers and bees,

    and the thrum of crumbles-in-waiting.

     

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    What of the ordinary days that slip by

    unremarked, when all our plans simply

    failed, but weren't disasters,

    when all we did was this and that,

    all we spoke was idle chatter...

     

    ...do those days,

    also matter?

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    Evening tide 

    The sheet metal sea
    stretches, fractures
    and ahead the sky breaks
    in shades of bronze and steel
    and gilded topaz.

    There is a line of iron,
    a spear of something
    that might be land, between
    the ocean and the sky.

    Distant and uncertain
    a darkness that might be
    a hope.

    Landfall. Nightfall.
    Home.

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    Autumn. Morning.

     
    Drop down to the edge
    of the marsh where
    city noise subsides
    behind the rattle of reeds
    and the wind in the trees

    a golden drop
    as the first leave falls
    and floats downstream


     

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    Fatima

     

    A rosary isn’t something you drop
    accidently, by a bus stop.

    A rosary is faith in a healing,
    a prayer believing

    that life will continue
    precisely as you...

    want it to.

    I am not of your faith,
    and I do not believe
    a mother who lost
    a son, would be
    so cruel

    as to wish that fate
    upon another one.

    A rosary isn’t something
    you leave in the moss
    upon the wall.

    Unless it’s purpose
    failed, and perhaps now
    your son is gone.

     

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    Shrivelight

     

    The trees welcomed me, to tread
    upon their fallen leaves,
    and breathe in their
    exhalation.

    The scent of woodsmoke
    transported me to other places,
    faraway autumn mornings
    among the hills,

    as the hidden sun drew light
    from the earth of endings,

    up and out into the sky.
          

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    Halangy Down

     

     

    Below a mound already ancient

    when they came, their village lies in ruins.

    I feel them still in that grassy lane,
    the ghosts of ordinary love and work,

    loss and hurt,

    and happy children at their play.

    The tomb above is empty now

    and ferns and foxgloves grow

    beside the open door.

     

    Some call it burial space
    but maybe it was just a passage way,

    from island land back to the sea,

    sailors heading eastwards,

     

    from the setting sun

    back towards the dawn.

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    Sea/sky Escape

     
    Perspective
    edged in lace
    fraying with age
    verdigris

    horizon lines

    darkening
    incontinuities

     

    the meaninglessness

    of looking out to sea

     

    toes clenching hold

    sand anchoring

     

    me

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    Idle

    We've forgotten our teenage wisdom,

    how to be idle, a whole day of gazing

    at the ceiling

    or the sky.

     

    No-one told us we would forget,

    nor how many years it would be

    before a summer called us back again,

    gave us permission...again...

    to chew on grass stems,

    and watch the clouds.

     

    Idling is a skill we should cling to,

    to get us through

    the long hot days

    of wild-fires and fear.

     

     

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    Between when and then

    (after Eckhard Tolle)

     

    Whatever it is, that creature crawling through
    the undergrowth, the strangling jungle of

    my mind,
    present thoughts are afraid of it, afraid of this
    moment, which does not exist. The past
    contains all that has happened, the future
    accepts no prescription, the ‘now’ pales
    as the shift of night into daylight.

    If you could catch a breath forever, halt

    the stars,
    you might then know how to be in

    this moment.

    Had I known eternity, still I would have
    chosen to let the world spin on.

    It stalks me still, that dark creature: time.

     

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    Enough

     

    There are days to go among the trees,

    the growing strong and the fallen ones,

    and all that blooms among them...

     

    and to know that is enough.

     

    There are days when to sit in sun

    and shade, listen to the bees,

    to watching someone work

    a thing, purely for the love

    of doing it...

     

    is enough.

     

    There are days when the blessing

    is the quietness of doing nothing,

    the knowing that some kinds

    of nothing

    are more than enough.

     

     

     

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    Poseidon sits on a Norfolk Beach

     

    A poem broken by a picture

    to become something else

     

     

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    Elegy for the field edges

    Three trees stand on the rise,
    bare-branched and shivering out
    the end of winter. Three trees
    on a hill-top.

    Where all the berries and blooms,
    the spider-webs and birds’ nests,
    gone from the hill?

    There are no mourners to mark
    the uprooted miles of the missing
    hawthorn, blackthorn, rose, willow.
    None to weep

    for all the lives that could not be lived
    in those hedges that no longer exist.

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    first atttempt at a Sijo...and I thought Haiku were tricky...

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    Pebbles

     

    Pebbles are shells needing longer
    to incubate, and the nest is hollowed
    out of flint and concrete and filled
    with water, both salt and rain;
    a single weed floats in memoriam
    of whoever laid these eggs
    and flew away on the storm, leaving
    a question mark of what might be.

     

    Or maybe it’s just a puddle and pebbles,
    stones washed up by the tide and dumped
    in a dip in the pavement, without magic
    or meaning…but then the earth
    would be just another rock,
    spinning pointlessly in space.

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    Stardust

    We are more elemental
    than we want to recognise.

     

    We are just as special
    as the stars in distant skies.

     

    We are just the same
    as rocks and suns and lakes.

     

    We are more magical
    than buns and fairy cakes.

     

    We are children of the earth
    and made of soil and sky.

     

    We are born of explosive dust,
    and yes, we are born to die.

     

    But we are here, today, alive.

     

     

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    If only I could find a crystal set 

    (after Randall Jarrell)
     

    If only I could find a crystal set
    in a filigree of ivory-coloured rock
    somewhere deep beneath the earth
    where waters fathom deep caverns
    carved out before any of us were born…

    if only I could find something dropped
    millennia ago by visitors from another realm…

    if only I could find the soul I left behind…

    if only, only, only…

    this were not all
    there is.

     

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    No more heroes

     

    I left the superheroes long ago,
    except the one that rode out from
    some western rodeo, the one cowboy
    with his Peruvian poncho, and ice-cold
    eyes, and a heart to match his spurs.

    I left all the fantasies long before
    I sat on sand with the sunset in my eyes,
    and longed to see dust rising in the distance
    a lone pale rider, maybe lonesome enough
    this time to turn his heart to home.

    I left all the dreams scattered in the Badlands,
    beyond the buttes, in dried up riverbeds,
    seeds for dusty sage that will never grow.

    I left it all behind.
    A very long time ago.

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    Time & tide wait for no man...
    ...but no-one says they're happy about it.
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    Why I'm confused about the colour of sadness

     

    I was born under a dark blue sky
    on a winter’s night where lights
    exploded in all the colours
    known, but I saw only
    the backdrop, the sky
    that shifted from midnight velvet
    to the pale-grey of dawn, to the azure
    midday over sunlit isles.

    I swam in lakes of glacial cobalt,
    and seas of sapphire, and rivers
    of shimmering steel.

    I walked woodland carpets
    of indigo bells, gathering bouquets
    of alkanet, forget-me-not and
    hyacinth, while by the meadows
    I saw the cornflowers reflect
    your eyes and let veronica bloom
    to speed me on.

    So when they sang their sad songs
    I never knew

    why they would choose
    to colour sadness blue.

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    Neolithic Passage Into Death

     

    It took everyone from the village
    in all their strength and ingenuity
    to hoist those stones

    as they had promised me they would
    to ensure my doorway into beyond
    would be open.

    Each man gave me sweat and labour,
    and his woman all her tears and heart,
    and children played

    because it was right my passing be celebrated as well as mourned on that hill above
    the crashing sea.

    I feel their passing songs echoing along

    the corridor, where lie tools and weapons
    I will no longer need

    and I feel their heart-beats fading
    and resurging like the tide, grief abating,
    a letting go, a setting free.


    This place will endure centuries and maybe
    others will rest here in ash or bone
    but not me, they raised these stones
    for me not as a grave but as a passageway
    from my land-life out beyond into the air

    above the ever-crashing sea.

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    Haunted

    I don’t believe in ghosts or undead spirits
    but still the walls echo with recorded voices.

    I don’t believe in the rising of souls from the deeps
    but still the lake dances with shining eyes.

    I don’t believe in rebirth as other things
    but still the woodland trails

    shine with fallen stars,

     

    and white feathers tell me I’m watched over by angels
    and hagstones are hung to ward off the evil ones
    and I knock on wood to remind them all

    that I amgrateful for how things are.

    I don’t believe in many things
    that don’t rely on my belief to be.

    I am not haunted by the past,
    but I believe the future is still out there
    hunting me.

     

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    The thing is I love being me...

     

    but if I had to be something else,
    then let me be a thing with wings,
    a feathered thing, that could lift up
    and be anchored to the sky, or tilt
    and let the earth fall away beneath
    my feet;

    or let me be a thing with fins,
    a deep-sea thing, that could dive down
    and not drown, but fly through waters
    beneath a distant flickering heaven
    where wave-caps break, to where

    the earth breaks itself in two

    and spumes quick-cooling fire

    and black smoke plumes
    and sulphur-breathing
    creatures live.

     

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    Sea Gull

    (After “Bad Co” // Mick Ralphs & Paul Rodgers)

     

     

    I sat on the shingle on that May morning,
    with ashes floating towards the horizon,
    going away from where you were from.

    I was a woman at the end of her questions,
    knowing that the world would go on…
    and watching the waters take you away.

    I watched the morning mourn its hours
    waiting the turning of clocks and seasons…
    and sat on the shingle at the end of days.

    I watched the sea gull that tipped his wings
    and flew westerly towards the setting of sun…
    and I knew that you were gone.

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    Spring Morning, Cley

     

    Between the gusts, a hidden warble.
    Silver reeds, emerging from dark waters.
    Low-flying geese, chasing and calling.

    Wind directly from the north
    spitting arctic ice.
    A swan high and silent against the cloud
    almost unnoticed.
    Flash of headlights down by the beach,
    brave souls going down to the sea.

    Weather gods playing fast and loose,
    brightening skies, telling lies.
    Take a moment – pretend – calm.
    Watch the patterns on the water.

     

    I am who you allowed me to be.

     

     

     

     

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    Chinchilla

     

    Pure white
    elegance,
    and a stare
    that would drop you dead
    at 20 paces.

    Sometimes life

    just isn’t
    fair.

    ~

     

    (image from @stampsbot)

     

     

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    Six years on

     

    I remember you huddled in the hall,
    "It wasn’t meant to be this way,"
    you said.

    I remember walking into the ward,
    "Are you ok?" you asked.
    I was not.

    I remember me and the cats not sleeping,
    "What’s going on?" Claws and curiosity,
    hacking at your bed.

     

    I remember the consultant telling me.
    "Not ready - no-one ever is," he said.
    I was not.

     

    I remember how the sun was setting
    and the field was silent, and I walked home alone.

     

    I called your best friend
    and then my brother
    and neither of them
    picked up

    the phone.

    I remember telling Dodge and Felix,
    and I remember how we slept together

    in your scent

    and all of us alone.

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    The Comfort of White Flowers

     

    Please don’t ask to walk with me
    along the quiet roads, where soft
    Venus hums among the comfreys.

    Don’t distract me from the bee
    as she settles to drinking,
    in the shade of nettle leaves:

    let me fall, enthralled, to the waiting,
    the aching, the shrinking myself so small
    that I might also taste such sweetness;

    let me hear the silence that hums
    its consent to my not doing any thing,
    any busy-ness, messy, living thing;

    let me cling to a white flower,
    and for a lifetime, be for a moment, still.

     

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    Tall Stories

     

    I have no tall tales to tell,
    only stories of the places I have been
    that made me feel so very small.

    Arid places, in the high hills,
    where flags pray in elemental tones,
    and the land is shades of grey.

    Liminal spaces, almost in the sky,
    where snow-peaks meet the clouds
    and there are temples in the caves.

    Places where oxen skulls keep out devils,
    and young monks wear track suits
    and drink from plastic bottles…

    and cafés with no running water
    offer free wifi, and Italian coffee,
    and prayer wheels still turn.


    I have no tall tales to tell,
    only stories of where I have walked

    and watched the world shrinking.

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    Beached

     

    Not rotting, just resting,

    waiting patiently for the tide.

     

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    Mill Cottage, River Bure

     

    The cottage is still there
    and the river churns beneath
    the bridge, racing to no purpose.


    It tumbles, and froths, and foams
    in frustration at the absence of a wheel
    upon which to ride.

    In summer, there are swimmers
    braving the unnatural cold to feel
    the pull of the current, imagining
    being carried all the way to the sea
    on a primordial tide.

    But this is April: wind and drizzle.

    No-one’s minded to wade in
    through the squelch of mud,
    more bog than bank, dreary
    with winter brash, but then:
    a note of hope: the wren sings
    its quiet overture to spring.

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    Ode to a Breakwater

     

    Is it only me that takes such pleasure
    in this agglomeration of wooden planks
    and rusting bolts? I confess a penchant
    for the humble groyne, whose very name
    speaks of pain, of withstanding,
    groaning in its attempt to hold back
    the tide-wash, to stop the beach
    from running away to sea.

    Sitting on the shingle, my back supported
    by your sturdiness, I feel not only held
    but warmed…the morning’s sun leaches
    back out of you, albeit damply, through
    my pale winter skin.

    The sea is wise to your attempt
    to disrupt its purpose and sets about
    filling the spaces between the sleepers
    with pebbles, small and twisting, loose
    mortar to make the bulwark more fast,
    but in doing so weakening your ability
    to hold the most by letting the small away.

    Pretty pebbles, shining strata, against
    the dullness of your brownish grey,
    but we both know them for what they
    are: mere stop-gaps that one strong wave
    will winkle out and wash well away.

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    On meeting a mole

    at midday

     

    So far from your tunnels,
    black velvet fades to grey,
    like some mad-dog
    Englishman at noon,
    what were you doing out?


    Scrabbling on the footpath,
    drought-dry gravel blunting
    claws and yielding nothing
    to flesh-pink paws.

    Wide-eyed despite
    the harsh, gritty, light,
    you kept your snout
    to the grinding stone,
    kept trying to dig
    your way back in.

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    Just to say...

     

    I went again down to the shore,
    where we used to walk, and tried to read
    the calligraphy upon the water.

    But I’ve lost the language
    we used to share, and cannot find
    the words, the ink bleeding
    at the edges of the frame.
                              

    I miss you. Us. How it was.

     

    I guess today was just another day.

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    Only when I took the photo for this post did I notice that one of the thre'penny bits my granddad kept was of Australian origin...now there's another untold story...how did that end up thirty years later in the pay-packet of a south Wales' miner. Oh, if only the coins could speak.

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    The house, the page, the tree

    (after Alicia Ostriker)

     

    I am thankful said the house,
    that you removed all the trees
    so that I can see the sky
    and I can breathe,
    and that my own roots
    feel a certain sense of ease.

     

    I am thankful said the page,
    for thoughts spilled in coloured ink
    so that you can see the why
    and you can breathe,
    and that your own wings
    stretch themselves to fly.

    I am thankful said the tree,
    that my pear-white flowers

    pearl out from this soil memory
    of the orchard where
    it all began and we
    can do whatever it is we need.


     

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    Mycelium & Worms & Other things

     

    Invisible under ground,
    self-perpetuating,
    with a thousand eyes,
    they weave a lacework
    of tunnels, that stretch
    and stretch,

     

    and in the silence
    when we have gone
    to our own ground,
    their jungle symphonies
    will soar up the sapways,
    the undisturbed songways,
    of all the mighty trees.

     

    And the sound of colour

    will bleed back into the world.

     

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    Cemetery Lane, Lunchtime

     

    The gathering daffodil scent of loneliness fades along the lane of dreaming cherry trees, where the lost geese are calling back to crows. Two and fro, the arguments between the call of the wild and the harsh bliss of being home. Meanwhile, on the other side of the hedge the raven sits on his favourite headstone, supervising the cutters of grass and diggers of new graves and ignoring the mourners of last-year’s dead who wait for the peace to ooze from plastic sandwiches, the same consistency of cheese
    as melted tar. The jets screaming overhead rain down promises, like umbrellas, or horse-shoes, or severed rabbits’ feet clutching clover, promises of holidays or holy days, or maybe just a few more, like, you know, ordinary days…without the lonely scent of cloudy daffodils.

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    Remembering Gatsby

     

     

    From the kitchen window,
    beyond the fence, I see it,
    the pale green security light,
    on the church wall…

    and I imagine the lawn
    as water, the wall as a pier.

    I can almost hear the music
    and laughter, its unreality,
    its shame.

    I can see the light
    across the water.

    I can feel the pain.

     

    ~

     Artwork from the cover of the BCA edition of collected works of Fitzgerald...uncredited in the book.

     

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    Time

     

    An imagined space
    in which we can pretend
    that things happened
    and, what is worse,
    that they may have been
    important things.

     

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    Teignmouth Beach

     

    What is this old-blood sand,
    trapped between iron and rust and chocolate?

    What’s with this tempestuous sky,
    running between opal and lead and tourmaline?

    What is this quicksilver sea,
    calmly fading all the colours to ‘old blue jeans’?

    And will I find the answers in the razor clams,
    or must I untie the ropes that hold the breakwater planks in place, and count every single stone or limpet shell?

    Or shall I just keep walking…and let the wind & waves carry all my idle thoughts away?

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    Essence of Winter

    (a group poem)

     

     

    Fierceness swaddling tears,
    a togetherness, listening
    to the murmurs

    Despite the hope and solitude
    of emotions, there is focussed
    the mystic.

     

     

     

     

     

    (words from writers & non-writers at a Cley reading)

     

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    Beached Rosebud

     


    Roses are red, but they do not bleed
    nor drown. Tossed into the water they swim
    and wait to wash back up upon the sand,
    among the stones of forgotten valentines,
    all the lost love of granular heartbreak,
    waiting out the waves, desiccating, fading,
    only half-preserved in salt.

     

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    Breakwater

     

    Where the water washes
    and a wooden altar stands,
    we will gather stones and hope

    that beauty still has meaning
    that will make us think on more
    than wood and water and stone.

     

     

     

     

     

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    Darkness

     

    Woke to a midnight moon,
    and didn't sleep for the rest of the night,
    listening to the wind.

    Walked in the rain,
    to stand in a simple, white-painted church,
    outside of myself,

    waiting to see what I have learned.

     

     

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    Flotsam

     

     

    Old rope and weed,

    woven into the beach,

    in a lovers’ knot

    of forgotten stories
    and the undersea.

     

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    Dawn

     

    There are wide skies
    aflame with the coming
    of a new day.

    There are wide seas
    roseate with the dawn
    rolling waves.


    And always small and high
    is a single gull,
    just flying.

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    What if...

     

    What if we could be baubles and mittens,
    snowmen and reindeer?
    What if we could be robins and yuletide trees?

    What if we could be winter birds and Christmas stockings,
    cartoon penguins and snow globes?
    What if we could be evergreen wreaths and children on sledges?

    What if we could be more moon and stars, more way-shine,
    simply remember and dance in snow?
    What if we could be more candle, and accept the dark & sweet?

    What if we could be a sparrow, or more like hot chocolate,
    more gingerbread man, more polar bear?
    What if we could be more sparkling, more tree-top singing?

    What if we could be the peaceful season, the tidings of joy,
    more giving and forgiving?
    What if we could be everyday acts of loving?

     

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    Loving the stars

    (after Sarah Williams:

    The Old Astronomer To His Pupil)

     

    I wake at three in the morning beneath the stars.

     

    Have you ever strayed from a dream into a fantasy,
    loved how the one merged into the other, the wonder,
    the unreality of all that depth of sky and
    stars close enough to touch?

     

    Too beautiful a night to waste in sleep, I remember
    fondly my father’s arms around me as he pointed
    to Orion and the Plough and Cassiopea’s Chair.

     

    Be silent, he said, and hear the song of eternity.

     

    Fearful folk have cowered before the immensity
    of our ancestral pathways through the sky, but
    the truth is written there for all to see and know.

     

    Night is when the vaults are opened.

     

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    Returning

     

    We stood on the edge of the marsh
    and one of our voices said,
    “I wanted to be part of a flock today,
    - thank you.”

     

    We huddle and skein
    and all our voices rise
    to the autumn skies.

     

    And I know that I am home.

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    Late Harvests

     

    September's ending,

    I should be cutting back

    the sage, but look to wasps

    and bees still sipping, drinking up

    the last of summer's sweetness.

     

    I can wait awhile, forgetful of

    calendar dates on pages,

    while the season lives out its fulness.

     

    broken image

     

     

    Seasons

     

    Summer waits on the shore,
    in bright waters and the green
    of subterranean weeds, while
    Autumn floats down to meet her
    on the first fallen leaf.

     

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    Fermain Bay

    (a little haiku trail)

     

     

    A single feather
    floats: an abandoned staysail
    catching the west wind.

     

    A snatch of seaweed,
    a mermaid’s blood-red wishbone,
    touches, swims away.

     

    Beneath the ripples,
    a blue eyed god lies waiting
    his time to be born.

     

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    A Wild Day On The Beach

     

    Oh, I needed that! Just being on the beach
    with the sea in full fury, the noise and the hypnotic churn
    both telling me “Don’t think. Just sit. Shut up. Open up.”

    That balance between attraction and fear.
    I really wanted to go stand in those waves,
    and I am not stupid enough to do so.

    Always the sea washes through my soul,
    but when it’s wild it scours me clean.

    broken image

     

     

    Vision, through a window

     

     

    Wildflowers – ok, call them weeds,
    - and a bistro table set, rusty shades of blue,
    tattered curtains hide whatever arguments
    inside are keeping me from being out there
    on the waves, the surf, the ocean, living out
    my dream, but people pass and maybe one
    or two, will understand how it feels, the having tried and failed...

    …to ride beyond the sunset into
    a something beyond the windows,

    reflections and salt-wrecked patios…

     

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    Bayfield Woods

     

    May we always have a steal-away space,

    where light is dappled through limes and

    and oak and ash,

     

    May we always have a sacred place,

    where ferns unfold,

     

    May we always know where the wood

    awaits us,

     

    And may we keep our promise

    to return.

     

     

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    Tonn a’ chladaich

     

    The beach wave gentles along
    the rolling cliffs, settling souls
    stirred by crashing waters.

     

    Dusky hued cliff clover,
    clambers along the edge,
    muting tumult.

     

    Heugh daisies cushioning
    ladies, surviving on the wild
    edge of unstable land.

     

    Thrifting, thriving, being
    wild in quiet ways,
    heads held high,

     

    strong spined,

     

    and silent,

     

    unassuming.

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    Woodland Wedding

     

    Sapphire and diamonds

    are traditional promissary rings

    but I don't need gemstones.

    Weave me instead a coronet

    of bluebell and stitchwort

    and emerald leaves of oak.

     

    I will wear a veil of Queen Anne's

    lace and bear a spring of hawthorn

    for a poesy.

     

    We will walk the old drovers way

    to the hidden stream, and there

    yellow iris will bear witness

    to our vows, and cups of butter

    will drink our health, and water

    lights will dance our dream.

     

    The ferns will soften us to our rest,

    and the stars will send their brightest

    merriest jest, and we will sleep where

    cattle breath once blessed the

    newly-wed.

     

     

     

    broken image

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

    The artwork is by Gertrude Abercromie & my thanks to Sue Burge's "Poetry Gym" for the prompt.

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    Marsh Voices

     

    I can yield no more;
    all my inner ghosts drowned at Arwen’s Ford.

    They’re always singing,
    always such a deafening, a wrangling, and a ringing.

    Your clouds, are they Cirrus?
    Or cumulus tumbled and flown from wedlock?

    Taffeta, glass, and truth gone by.
    I am enough of silver, all day blue, and defenders do not win.

    Nothing worth the stating
    in this world, where newly murdered lie in the marram,

    and greater sins
    offer the sun excuses from this newly smelted morning.
     

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      Cattle Wisdom

     

    Contentment is a quiet sky,
    and greenery, and the water
    that flows along the field;

    it is knowing where the grass
    grows at its most lush and how
    to rest easily to chew the cud.

    Contentment is accepting the field
    with all its weeds, and finding our
    own way to the river’s edge.

     

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    Dew Drops

    She sits quietly and smiles, and

    hides the constant pain she refuses

    to talk about, but is there behind her eyes
    when she nods a silent yes.

    She laughs about her penguin-waddle
    which means, something else is going
    oddly wrong, and that too is pushed aside

    to speak of my week or my day on the marsh and how the rainbows rise and larks sing,

    and geese come and go.

    She would rather share how much
    she loves the way dew alights on grass
    on summer mornings. She would rather
    laugh through her memories of romance
    with the man still by her side, and let the
    candles dance where she can no longer.

    She loves a lantern, sparkles, and living
    light. She loves green things.

    She buys me elephants.

    And lays fires in the room where I will
    sleep and watch the moon cross the sky.

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    Setting

     

    I am all the red-gold colours, white-hearted
    with the heat of every love there ever was.

    I welcome the rest of evening, the sinking into to the molten leaden sea at nightfall.

    The clouds that veil my undressing soften
    and pull my shades, stretching evanescence,
    allowing me fingers, tendrils to paint a path
    across tide, and harvest fields in the sky,
    and spin mysteries that reach toward
    you on the shore.

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    Towards Tomorrow

     

    Above the dark waters,
    above the fiery phoenix feathers,
    a simple gull flies towards morning.

     

    broken image

     

     

     

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    Imbolc 2023

     

    You may find the promise of spring
    in hedgerows, snowdrops, crocus,
    in budding leaves and birdsong,
    but I know that winter’s tiring
    when first the beach bows
    to an arching sky and sea
    calls for discarded shoes
    and brave toes to be
    caressed by cold. 

     

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    Conservation Options

     

    Talking
    about all the
    xenophobia
    in our
    destructive
    existence,
    reminds
    me of all that
    is still here,
    still to pray for,
    to be reprieved.

     

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    Secret Gardens

     

    Where do we go in the dead of night;
    what lights shine in secret gardens?

     

    Waking leaves green and soften
    the place where rain has fallen
    and candles are not lit and
    interloping paths are strange
    un-wild ways,

     

    and the door is ever open to
    the darkness, the deepness
    of un-tamed dream-space.

     

     

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    Who are they now?

     

    Who are they now, the Elders?


    Where have they gone, the wise ones,
    who held all that was sacred?

     

    How long is it since the pure-in-heart
    and ancient-in-wisdom, looked upon
    the path ahead and turned aside?

     

    And will they return?

     

    It is hard to live in the world of man, and yet

     

    the oaks still stand
     

    gnarled and twisted and bark-stripped
    and deep-grooved, and branch-shed,
    and leaning over the road,

    and wounded and

    open-hearted.

     

    Where are they now, the elders?

     

    They wait in quiet lanes
    and by the woodland paths.

     

    And you will know them
    by the silence of their beckoning.

     

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    Abstract

     

    What is wild, or life?
    Not only that which breathes, but
    stones and fallen leaves.

     

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    Lily

     

     

    Is there anything more wild and free
    than sunlight?

     

    And are we ever more arrested
    by the natural world, than when
    it makes us stop…

     

    …and see.


     

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    Reality

     

     

    It lay there, still bloodied and gnawed. I foot-dragged shingle over it and tamped it down to feed the earth-living things

    and hoped it would rot and disappear,
    but truth is it was too near the door, and I would tread upon its grave too often to rest easy.

     

    I let it resurface and was surprised
    at the humanity in its paws, how hand-like
    they are holding that single pebble
    like a holy book, and the flowing nature
    of its gown, a rain-drenched shroud.

     

    So what do I do now?

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    Tree

     

    Don’t drape me with plastic, or flowers,
    nor tie me with ribbons and string,
    clothe me only warm sphagnum blankets,
    and birds stopping by to sing.

     

    For pearls give me mushrooms that gleam,
    for diamonds string dewdrops on webs,
    cloak me in gossamer mists of a morning
    and crown me with a ruby at sunset.



     

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    What would you do?

     

    If you were tiny, and your rapid
    heart, outraced the minute
    a thousand to one;

     

    if you’d become a poster-boy
    for some strange cult, purely
    because of the colour
    of your skin;

     

    If you woke too early and slept
    too late, and were harried to
    live the frozen months on
    scraps, and ice;

     

    would you still climb the highest
    tree, and sing?

     

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    We are all sometimes Gull

     

    We do what we need to do,
    not what others want of us,
    yet while we’re slamming down
    head-first after soggy bread
    on Christmas day, we don’t
    know just how beautiful
    are the wings that
    hold us.



     

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    Last Light

     

    Longest night steals in;
    trees spread their black
    fingers into the sky and
    across the waters.

     

    Darkness does not fall,
    but waits for daylight shades
    to fade to grey and outlasts
    that flash of white,

     

    while blackness oozes
    from the banks.

     

     

     

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    Wintering

     

    I do not wish my old life back
    nor the people from it

    but how I miss…

    the way they made me feel
    and how I feel the sadness
    of this new world.



     

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    A Wish Granted

     

    I woke to a world of fairy-dust
    and glitter,

     

    not true snow-fall, more

    a sugar-coating,

     

    an end-of-Autumn shimmer,

    winter’s coming.



     

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    Wet wood (close-up)

     

    Translucence rises from logs and leaves,
    pearlescent, alabaster, sepia memories of
    the aging and the birthing, the quietude
    of autumn: woodland decaying into life.

     

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    Autumn Falling

     

     

    If I should fall in Autumn, then let me lie
    where golden leaves will be my coverlet.

     

    Let the gentle mists sing me to my rest,
    and early evenings welcome me to home.

     

    Instead of swan-song let me hear the honk
    of returning geese and believe that I will fly

    in a shimmer of golden wings rising
    into the morning Autumn sky.



     

    broken image

     

     

    Hieroglyphs

     

    We look to the stars for the alien life,
    which already lives beneath our feet, and writes to us, in hieroglyphs
    trying to find a way to speak,

     

    while we look far beyond the place
    we live and do not yet understand.

     

    The scarab first caught my eye, emerging crablike on the Cromer sands,

     

    then the overflowing horn of plenty,
    its silver shimmering creator coiled

     

    and dived leaving all the cryptic faces,
    goggled, helmeted, spaced out and

     

    planned for me to wonder at, puzzle out to find the four-ribbed tube-breathing prototype of man.



     

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    Landmarks

     

     

    We think of famous places,
    natural untainted spaces, or those
    magnificent castles and country piles
    of bricks, and gentry lives, but whose
    landmarks are those?

     

    What relevance to your growth
    and being who you are becoming
    registers in that earth, or those walls?

     

    Make your own marks on the land!
    Create your true points of reference, and
    raise the smallest statues to your beliefs.

    Or plant – or maybe save – a tree, to
    shine golden in the evening against
    life’s stormy sky.

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    Autumn Encroaching

     

     

    As we edge towards the darkening,
    lanes are lit by summer’s lingering.
    Fairy-sconces of toadflax torches,
    shine by the hacked-back hedges,
    while beyond the rusting gates,
    and long-forgotten fences,
    bright green fields stretch
    out their aching sinews,
    refreshed by autumn
    drenches, and then
    relax their greens
    into fading sage
    and brownish
    beige, as all
    summer
    colour
    fades
    away.
     

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    If I could only photograph one thing

     

    I would sit and weep for being
    made to choose, between the paling
    of the sky at dawn, and the fading
    of the earth at dusk.

     

    And in my tears I would find the
    answer, if I could only photograph
    one thing, I would choose
    “reflections”.

     

    I would picture the distorted world,
    rounded in a raindrop, gilded
    in an office window, impressionist
    river paintings.

     

    Low tide would gift me light,
    clouds and cliffs in the shimmers
    of the still-wet sands, and gulls
    upside-down.

     

    In puddles I would find the autumn
    leaves, the wellington joy of children,
    and in the dark of the mountain tarn,
    I’d find the echo of miracles.

    broken image

    Tread not so softly

    (After W.B. Yeats)

     

    Though my dreams are scattered
    at your feet, run wildly on.

     

    My hopes are as firm as the
    dunes where the marram grows,
    as the quicksilver of the evening seas;

    they have all the fragility
    of the moon at dawn,

     

    but fear not your treading
    across my heart, run free,
    run wildly on.

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    The Seeds of Memory

    Soft ice cream and the pointless drive
    along country lanes, which you haven’t yet
    figured out is one of my favourite things, idle
    rides on roads to somewhere, or nowhere,
    just looking at the places in between.

     

    The gentleness of cygnets on the river,
    in their end-of-summer grey, thunder clouds
    fallen down without rainfall, soft feathers
    on the water, and beyond the tree-lined
    bend: the skipping light.

     

    Reed-streams below the surface, and
    why I wouldn’t swim where such fickle
    greenery lies waiting to entangle the
    unwary; ramshackle boats and one
    sleek beauty of polished wood that I
    held back from stroking.

     

    Old flint walls and hidden park-land
    beyond its old-money rusting fences,
    tree-tunnels, and macho fools who jump
    from the stone bridge into the weir,
    impressing no-one.

     

     

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    Poppy

     

    Be still blood red heart
    of paper whispers, there is
    bee-work to be done.
     

     

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    Weed Bug

     

     

    Lonely seven-spot,
    forages in the shade of
    a ragwort sunburst

    broken image

     

     

     

    The Gatekeeper

     

     

    Hearts of burnished bronze,
    and silken fawn, held in the
    palm of lime green leaves.

    broken image

     

     

    Water on white campion

    Flaming June is doused,
    and sopping, sobbing still.


    Night-scents are wasted
    when moths cannot fly,
    wet-winged, grounded,
    hungry for the sweetness
    hidden in that pale blind
    eye.

    broken image

     

     

    Marsh Moment
    22.6.22

     

    Heat on the river path has me slowing
    to the pace of swans, languid and diving
    beneath the water, seeking shade; has
    me retreating to the few trees
    and the breath of leaves.

     

    A swing has been strung on a branch,
    seemingly grown specifically horizontal
    for that purpose

     

    and looking as though it has been
    there forever,

     

    waiting for childhood to return.

     

    I regret just walking on.

    broken image

     

     

    Orange Tip Settling

     

    Impatience flutters,
    alights on the perfect bloom,
    folds wings, disappears.