We hang on to hope

We hang on to hope 

There's a snowdrop in our garden 

just the one

it shakes and shivers, frail stem quivers

and a Christmas rose, tinged pink

some plants in pots, astonishing 

still in flower. 

Passion fruit, orange eggs, 

decorate the wires

and there's pineapple sage, bright scarlet

all of the bush ablaze. 

When the world's out of kilter

so much amiss

flooding and fire, deaths, disaster

our planet trying to tell, with visions of hell 

children marching to save us

in spite of it all

stupidity, mindless greed

we hang on to hope

it's human to hope 

to smile for the snow white flower. 

15th January 2020 Hounoux 

Clare's song

Clare's song 

Now that the serin's here and singing, she said
and left it hanging
while summer tiptoed in
trailing poppies, larkspur, roses
a dog rose come from nowhere
spread out along the wires
the mountains blurred and floating , pale mirage
the buzz and flit, the busy-ness
and creep and crawl as lizards lick and squiggle
heat and thrum, hot sun
sage in swathes, sharp
and basil, lavender, scents to drowse and drug
delight
now that the serin's  here and singing

Hounoux, June 22nd 2019 for Clare with love 

Fragile as a web

Fragile as a web 

My memory is fragile, lacy as a web
with holes
not to be trusted now. 
So I patch and photograph,
to catch ephemera that shimmer 
Mayfly for a day fly, gone  tomorrow
like crimson leaf against the Prussian blue 
then yesterday the sky's light, silver 
twice, mirrored in the sea
and on the shore all flotsam strewn 
enormous trunks and branches 
such giant aftermath
and high unlikely surf.
So we recalled the lovely lilac
sea and sky and Lily's sari 
matching tones you'd think were meant 
but purest serendipity
caught in a camera 
that Sri Lankan day. 


24th October 2018, Hounoux, for Lily 

In Monet's Dreams

In Monet's Dreams

In Monet's dreams the lilies float
in blues and greens and white
and all that's fathomless is still
perfection replicated.
Just so he sees the curving bridge
its double in the water.
By day his vision's blurred like tears
or cobwebs in a veil 
thus brushes, canvas, pigments, knife
his palette, in the jar
the blues and greens and white
again again the lilies float
and in a moment, so!
the genius stroke
he has them oh!
perfection replicated.

Hounoux, 21st June 2018, for Gill Masters of course!  

There is magic in the morning

There is magic in this morning 

There are diamonds in a galaxy this morning
brilliant on the panes
in the early up sun up
Autumn beckoning to winter day

There is beaten copper, bronze and orange
burnishing the vines
and fields in gold and lime.
Behind the belltower's silhouette
blue canopy's back-lit. 

There's a memory of lacework patterning the glass
ice like doilies Jack Frost left.
Look out look out the Beauty will bite
Five year old fingertips torn

Winter's hand in hand with Autumn
shine and sparkle dazzle dance.
There is magic in this morning 
the Enchanter called last night.

27th November 2017, Hounoux

Seeds I never sowed

Seeds I never sowed

Not in the careful bed

with love in a mist, most artfully mixed

and honeysuckle scrambling

not there where I poked the seedlings, inches high and frail

an echo of home in  cottage garden patch

but elsewhere, quite unbidden, heedless of masterplan

stood tall in the onion rows,

out and proud, pinks in every shade

fuchsia, candyfloss, blush

my dream of England in profusion

Cosmos, running wild

seeds I never sowed

borne in the wind, by birds, by chance

a random piece of loveliness

purely by happenstance

14th July 2017, Hounoux

Yesterday a poet died

Yesterday a poet died

Today I'll walk on grass barefoot, blades on my sole

crouch by the lavenders surviving- thriving- in half an inch of soil, mostly stones

and wait for bees and hummingbird hawkmoths dancing

for ants about their business, woodlice,

for evidence of spiders silver strung in wild clematis 

and quick slick lizards. 

I'll breathe in the honeysuckle, jasmine, roses mingled

clamour of blackcaps and redstarts

spring to summer songs 

I'll look at clouds and colours, think of palettes, poetry

of Helen, clear and beautiful

her mother's helping hand, uplifting

welcomed home at last.

8th June 2017, Hounoux,  In memoriam Helen Dunmore.