Past the equinox ( Autumn 2)

Past the equinox (Autumn 2)

Leaves curl, crisp,
fall
till trees are bare, cat's cradle where the low-slung sun
now on, now off
sends out its light-house beam.
All change for the world in autumn
past the equinox
geese in a vee
swifts in a swirl
heeding the lure of the south
leaf, grief
day of the dead
time to remember and mourn
tears for the dear, nevermore here
this long time gone home.
Mists of the morning, hung in a shroud
as lovely days grow chill
October, November
remember, remember,
leaves curl, crisp,
fall.

October 17th 2013, Brighton

Morning Glory ( Autumn 1)

Morning Glory ( Autumn 1)

This week's story, morning glory
glory be! Is martins wheeling, 
flock convening, readying perhaps
in skies all brilliant and backlit
by low October sun, mackerel
as rippled sand on shore

Autumn story, days of glory
see, the season flames and glows
scarlet, carmine, orange embers
shot of beauty we'll remember
when the world has tipped and chilled

October 16th 2013, Brighton

Amsterdam shone

Amsterdam shone

Amsterdam shone 
in tumbled kaleidoscope squares 
lit by October sun

Canals in curves, concentric
confused with a lattice of lines, for bikes and 
buses, trams


The dark and the light
shadows and bright 
caught in the masters' oils;
women in windows 
with a letter, a jug;
luminous, behind the dun and umber
Van Gogh's Potato Pickers;
on the water dancing 
with cumulus clouds

Amsterdam shone 
in picture-book shots
dolls' house and toy town neatness
gables with hooks 
flowers, flowers, flowers
striking the eye and the ear
women in windows
sex showing live
making voyeurs perhaps of us all? 

The carillon bells with the quarter-hour chimes
must have meted and measured the days 
blacked-out, hidden, Frank family forbidden
lines on the wall
growing ever so tall

Still, her tiptoe attic window
just-a-glimpse, chestnut tree
lit by October sun
in tumbled kaleidoscope squares
as Amsterdam shone 

October 9th 2013, Bournemouth, for Marilyn, Pam and Jude

It's territory shared

It’s territory shared

Soaking sun in silence by the pool                                                                                            

late September, no tractors yet,

the grapes this year delayed,

I’m hearing Yeats, bean rows, honey-hives

and golden apples of the sun

in luscious Irish lilt.

And Hopkins too

as brindled, dappled, couple-coloured

moths and butterflies dance  by

or pause for me to name: Painted Lady, Red (not Orange) Underwing.

Now all the air is busy-

Pied Flycatchers fly sudden upward, then just as sudden drop.

Entire family here, extended, surely not one brood

and this, the boundary of our land,

distinctly theirs also.

It’s territory shared.

So all the way from Africa

to ours/ their summer place

no satnav, year on year unerring

their returning, timeless rhythm

poetry.

29th September 2013, Hounoux. 

Noli Timere

Noli Timere

I take my tea to the circle

right on the garden’s edge

dwelling on Seamus Heaney, poet constantly,

though blood and tears ran with the rain

spattered walls and horror

ruled in his land

I sip my tea as the Marin blows

rattling the figs’ dry leaves.

Did he write in the anguish to let it out,

to ease the heart’s pounding pain

or hot as his anger boiled,

or out of respect, marking the loss

a wail as the bagpipes lament?

Noli timere

his last words, a text to comfort his wife

and me, with my tea,

clutched on the curving bench

raising evermore thanks for his courage and gift

to deal with the dark, to mine from unspeakable depths;

for poetry’s beacon, holding the line

a marker to grasp when the flood’s in spate

and horror has the upper hand.

7th September 2013, Hounoux

Sky

Sky 

Some days it is all about the landscape; fields, trees and mountains shimmering

colours patched and matched,

but this long week the gauge has risen, hot and ever hotter

so we bake and barely breathe, seek shade.

Only the birds are moving, chaffinch, dove, swift

and pale butterflies flit;

but clouds are still, puffed and pulled, cirrus in strands

static;

a thing of beauty joy for ever,

watch and wonder

sky

16th July 2013, Hounoux

As countless birds gave song

As countless birds gave song

Surely a poem here she said

bent among the canes, red with raspberries

as the mountains floated, blue on cloudless blue

still a frosting, extraordinary, on the summit

swifts sickle-scythed in sudden loops,

a serin from the pine top poured its all, sweet notes,

lavender, honeysuckle and roses, slightly run amok

mixed heady scents;

and all the July air was filled

as countless birds gave song. 

6th July 2013, Hounoux by the pool, for Wendy with love 

Fete de la Musique

Fête de la Musique

It was cold that day

winterish in June and even rain was threatened.

We wondered, would they come

to the huge-capacity barn, not warm,

wind whistling through the gaps.

What call for opera deep in rural France

we wondered, would they come?

But come they did, nombreux, in droves

all that wonderful weekend

for opera and jazz (with brunch) woodwind and pop

(circa 1960), then Grand Finale, Gloria!

Sacred music in the church.

What a gift he has and o so generously shares

the choir master, chef,

all of us, the international troupe somehow imbued

a magic conjuring trick

with notes and keys and musicality.

Together, sixty strong, we stood and watched his baton

followed where he led

raised our  voices, sang from our souls

and shared something sublime.

July 5th 2013, Hounoux, for Alan Simmons in appreciation