Autumn's an artist

Autumn's an artist

All along the verges grasses glow
tufts unruly, blazing
in orange and yellow golden gilt 
on such a day the world's caught fire
as Autumn with her palette strides
scarlet, amber, gold
and splash and spray and daub and drip
the colours flung
till trees and bushes, vines in fields
and all the landscape zings.

Autumn's an artist, red-haired, ripe
drunk on the day's bright beauty
lovely and lush
drip of the brush
now all of the world's on fire. 

24th November 2016, Hounoux  

An egg, a seed, a pearl

An egg, a seed, a pearl

Like an egg waiting, secret in its nest
or a seed un-sprung, a pearl
glowing between the oyster shells
so the posted poems
hidden treasure in the Moleskines
pocket size, within the box, after box
all over Exmoor as walkers passed
paused and looked and thought
chewing the pencil's end
some to rhyme with simple schemes
some to fly more free
then left behind their verse, a memory of cloud and sky 
of rock and moor, that day
stoppered in a bottle, the perfume of that day
perfectly in miniature
an egg, a seed, a pearl

 7th November 2016, Hounoux

(ref the Poetry Box project, when over a three year period many boxes were placed all over Exmoor containing notebooks in which passers by might draw or write a poem.)

Clare's vision

Clare's vision

Look! you said, look there
pointing, where in a line curved east to west across the sky
with steady beating wings, you counted four, then nine, now twelve
east to west across the sky, a flight of eagles
shadow show against the light, the bright and luminous
numinous it somehow seemed,  to make the neck hairs rise
that glorious Autumn day

28th October, Hounoux, for Clare with love

 

Dawn after the night crossing

Dawn after the night crossing 

The moon in the west's still high

exceptionally bright, two days past full

and in the east long clouds are washed in pink and peach

as creeping through the spectrum, orange, gold

the sun now rising, summons 

this new day. 

24th July 2016, passing through Normandy. 

Hoping we'd remain

Hoping we'd remain

The night was proper June at last, balmy

the sun still high, blue sky

swifts wheeled squealing.

I made a fan, creasing the paper place mat

for a small current of air. So still the night unbreathing,

the month's moon full for solstice, midsummer

and in France la fête de la musique

songs in the street

friends in English, German, French, Rumanian

hoping we'd  remain, part of the project

imperfect, but surely people of Britain, you of good heart

tolerant historically, and still, 

a vision to aspire to

ideals to make us proud? 

June 22nd 2016, Hounoux

I think they grew in paradise

I think they grew in paradise

Long and lean the tall palms lurch, to left and right
in drunken disarray 
ringed with ridges, so strong feet, prehensile
can grip to clamber upward
where the leaves as fans wave and sway 
and coconuts are clumped.

The strangest tree, surely impossibly designed
but everywhere thriving, multiplied in groves, and bountiful
fibre, milk and flesh, the leaves for shelter/shade
iconic on the shore, white sands and water warmed,
a desert island dream.
I think they grew in paradise
and here, profuse, in Sri Lanka's teardrop
pearl-drop, once was Serendip,
loveliest of lands.

5th February 2016, Morning Star hotel, Mirissa Beach, Sri Lanka

 

Undaunted by the sun

Undaunted by the sun

India comes in technicolour, never monotone nor buff
beige, bland
but gaudy and garish, clashing shades
sun bright
houses painted pinks with purples
orange teamed with red
a splash of blue
turquoise, kingfisher, teal
and up the walls rampaging, bougainvillea's paper flowers
hot hibiscus marigold and rose
sunflowers yellow chrome
even the fields now carpetted with paddy's lush lime green
all of the rainbow's boldest tones
shout and zing
loud and proud in the midday glare
more than a match, equal to the challenge
undaunted by the sun. 

24th January 2016, RUHSA campus 

Filling the hot black night

Filling the hot black night

If you should, like me, be sleeping
stunned beneath the fan
after a hot and humid day
sticky, breathless sun-behind-the-clouds day 
but  waking, precisely as a clock, at six fifteen 
dusk dropping like a blanket, sudden
then all above the swoosh of fan, such racket you would hear
a hundred thousand voices massed
squawk and cheep and caw
cacophonous
a hellish choir, the council of crows roosting
unlovely tinnitus
filling the hot black night 

 21st January 2016, RUHSA campus

There was small snow sprinkling also

There was small snow sprinkling also
  
There was small snow sprinkling also
that evening you arrived 
and fixed your eyes, questioning,
on us who waited, over-joyed
to greet you, baby girl
then, as now, a source of wonder 
newly-minted.

And as you grew from there to here
milestones reached and passed
we watched you do your Betty thing, unique
your own path followed,
sure of self, untroubled, fierce
hurdles overcome
(go round, go under, over, onward see you go)
and often funny, sometimes mad, not bad
but set upon the step to think
and everywhere beloved
as through your life you stride and jump and dance
unsubtle, never-overlooked
big voice, big heart
dearest Betty, our delight.

January 18th 2016, for Betty Spaghetti, with love xxx
 

All in a hot and dusty day

All in a hot and dusty day

So, starting with goats,

two kids in the nursery, branches strewn on slatted floor

a pair of pigs, a nasty noise, loud squealing at the  trough,

(yesterday’s rice and curry waste will surely flavour pork!)

Pretty brown cows, chew chewing,

cheep cheep chicks, jostling for corn.

Then alas for four, saddle-sore, the sweat and wobble/ weave

to Kavanur, right there where Ambedkhar stands arm raised

a hero for the poor, outcast,

to meet the elderly, sixteen women, just one man

sat in a circle smiles ready (they’re spirited this crew!)

Christmas gift of saris, (one dhoti), Elamma’s storybook tale

(god help you in this culture when the family’s unkind)

then on to the next

(pause for a moment , a funeral’s ahead, fire crackers flowers and drums)

where more elders await, two likely lads grown old

but bursting to sing,  with drumming and dance;

requesting a motor so their water will flow.

Meanwhile of course our puncture is fixed

(no sir, no, there will not be any problem)

a pause down the road to watch jaggery made

simple skills of manufacture

mending, planting, growing

practical people all

help ever at hand.

Home for an hour of horizontal, beneath the whirring fan

Just before the fall of dusk and gathering of crows.

Off again in the comfort of car

to farmers in a club, each with a cow

big-eyed beauties, Jersey-cross

will stretch the family’s means

a life beyond  subsistence.

Finally it’s teenage lads, Abdul Kallam Boys’ Club

enthused of course by sport

cricket, kabbadi, volley ball

but we’ll try to sell them school

hang in there for a better life

India’s greatest hope

(as for my dad in Scotland a century ago

education’s magic key)

And so to bed, exhausted

pictures turning in my head

kaleidoscope

of women bent over paddy fields

steam on a sugar vat

drums for a funeral

bright smiles and vanacum!

a turquoise roller on a wire

goats and chicks and soft brown cows

four of us on cycles, toiling, midday sun

hot day, long day, busy,

good day done.

January 17th 2016, RUHSA, for Pam with love

 

Indian nights

Indian nights

Indian nights are deep and dark
a January moon, thin-pared, and silver on its back
with stars too far and veiled
smoke and dust swirled thick into a blanket, deadening;
but ceaseless noise from dawn till dusk
crows in rows (so rooks perhaps?) 
roosting, then again, a further meeting, loud conference
all join in cacophony, just past midnight.
Meanwhile trains, hoot of horn, multiple toot and tune
rattle and roll, rattle and roll, rushing to crescendo
clickety-clack, over the track, and passing
Chennai to Bangalore.

So just before the sunrise, loudspeaker music comes
high-pitched and tinny to our ears, unlovely;
usually a cock or two
though dawn's announcement hardly necessary 
this black and clamourous never-ending 
noisome night. 

January 15th 2016, RUHSA

Tears togetther shed

Tears together shed

Years ago, thirty-eight, a friend reached down into my grief

and lit a path, one candle

better than darkness cursed

to shine and show, small seed sown

how though the world is wide and far

and language strange, culture and custom odd and surely wrong

so many gods, marriages arranged

a price upon the young bride’s head

still we have seen and known, through friendships grown

hands linked, small phrases learned and shared

stretched to bridge divides

arms in sorrow flung for comfort, tears together shed

and so, this much we know

that difference and distance, wide and far

nothing signify at all.

Put it simply, sing it loud

we are human, undivided, altogether

we are one. 

January 8th 2016, RUHSA campus, for Carolyn with love and I.M Thomas George Whittingham, 30/ 10/ 77- 07/ 01/ 78.