As rounded as an egg

As rounded as an egg

I have a pencil sharpened, useful rubber at its end
just that and silence hissing thickly
swirled about the room
with intermittent buzz and flit flit flies
while I wait like a believer, sat in seance
or Friends in quiet circles, will the Spirit come?

But should I up and fetch a broom, the ironed change of sheets
a duster, begin to fettle
galvanize, prepare that room for guests
shake the crumbs and shift the dust
sparkle polish clean? 

Or strip myself instead of beds and brave the gasp of pool
length on length through liquid, languid
all thoughts subdued in the frog-slow stroke
while cirrus tuft and wisp
like old man's beard along the fence, and dandelion heads.

It is a white and misty day, the landscape's ill-defined
lines chalky smudge and blurred
while I wait like a believer, patient
as words on silent wings, more butterfly than bird
flap hither, thither, form, reform 
until, the poem from the pencil, landscape from the mist
emerges, clarified
as rounded as an egg. 

26th September 2014, Hounoux

I suppose

I suppose

 

I suppose it’s worth a try to turn away

deaf ear, blind eye

to switch the channel, close the screens

the streams of pus and devastation

stink and filth and rotten core

the bile and rage, the running sore

the men with rockets downing planes

corrupting power, ill-gotten gains

abuse of children, innocence

deflowered youth, barbed-wire fence

all day the news is pouring forth, never-ending sound- bite feed

Facebook stories, Twitter tweet

and we are sated  over-stuffed with pain and anguish

souls now lost, lives and loves now blown to hell

and all for what, the fight for land for right for power

atrocities new every hour

for ancient grievance, modern too

hatreds simmered, anger boiled

young men prepared to die and kill

for what for why for bloody hell.

And so instead of rolling news

perhaps I’ll stand and stare at views

at sunflower fields and barley blown

tamarisk’s pink fronds and feathers

the sweep of sun and summer weather

rain and storms then lightening flash

chasing shadows in the valley

bird profusion, buzzard ballet

watch them float upon the thermals

engross myself in butterflies, their daily flutter, dance and show

or cloud formations, ants in lines

bees about their to and fro.

Yes I’ll resolve to hit the zapper

lose the news and watch instead

the scurry scuttle, lizard’s  dart

busy world of black redstart

and quiet  the roar, the grizzly clamour,

yes I suppose it’s worth a try

to mend the heart to soothe the soul

not think, just drink

with eyes and ears and every sense

oblivion, in the loveliness.

22nd July 2014, Hounoux

I know you serin

I know you serin

I know you serin by your song
and by your chosen spot
you sit small and still and often on the wires
even without the yellow, give-away
and similarly swifts
scimitar and squeal
the tree-frog's quack
astonishing, his lurid green
humming-bird hawk moths
for their swing-hover, side-slipping,
proboscis in the pinks and petunias
night-scented stocks, impatiens
perfume sweet and strong
like the song
pitched high above the rest
the yellow flash, so now he's on the tamarisk
all about their business
lizard quick, slick on path or wall
as I hang washing, water
un-kink the hose, dead-head
their world, my world
my world, theirs
I know you serin by your song.

14th June 2014 Hounoux.

Moon and Nightingale

Moon and Nightingale

One evening in May towards the end

June ready in the wings

after a day that sang of summer, warm and still

insects profuse

we dined and wined two friends.

She spoke of rosé recommended, grown here, the Languedoc

then other topics flowed

geography, history, place and time

bloodiness enough

chateaux, popes and heresy, gruesome ways to death

but much more to my taste and interest, the raucous choir cacophony

of crickets, frogs and birds now tuning up

as dusk fell slow

and suddenly she hushed us all to listen:

from the margins, fig trees on our boundary

we heard  it loud and sweet and  as the song reprised in phrases

clearly Keat’s beloved bird,

a nightingale, in fullest flow.

Later through the glass when chill air drove us in

we watched a huge moon rise

deepest yellow gold.

Put those together, moon and nightingale

quick, catch them in the jar

the lid the lid

for  just in case of

memory, now scratching, etching, graffiti artist on my soul
reaching for poetry,

should feeble grow and fail. 

Hounoux, June 8th 2014, for Jenny and John who taught us how

All of the days

Round in a circle, turn and turn
all of the days are strung
lovely as lights, the dark, the bright
here's where the living's done
ours to be treasured 
savoured, loved
even the every, mundane
measure the sand and feel its slip
where sits the sun in the sky?
Choice of the poet
reluctant or bold?
Day after day the what the how
writing a life we choose.


April 1st 2014, Hounoux

If wine is bottled poetry

If wine is bottled poetry
frost on the vine, bare earth
pruners, frozen-fingered
wild garlic's white lace trails
poppies, bumble bees
first grapes sun
swelling, scissors
bucket barrel vat
crush and squeeze
love and expertise
and in the end, Keat's beaded bubbles
winking at the brim
the warm south  
bottled
if wine is poetry

March 22nd 2014,  Gloucester to Exeter train 

Four for the box

Four for the box then
magical
priceless, offered free
one at the doorway, full-beam bright
a hug as high as his reach
another all bones, for Halloween
skeleton hand in mine
and then the youngest, quizzical
an eye-brow questioning her mum
before the crinkled nose and smile, slowly
as recognition dawns.

Only the oldest has the words
Love you granny, daily, her hello
goodbye
future-proof and stowed
never to lose their shine
four for the box, safe-keeping
memories, magical

1st April 2014, Hounoux, for Lily, Luca, Zach and Betty.