Pleached Limes

 Pleached limes 

In the dog days numberless

Christmas gone, the year not yet expired

December chilled and bit

feet and fingers, stamp and clapping 

breath of dragon, huff and puff

some small snow fluttered, failed to settle

no shine of frost on vines in solstice sun 

though Jupiter and Saturn very nearly met, conjunction 

bright as Bethlehem’s. 

And while the world was drear, this rump declining tail-end time 

plague year dragging dreadful, Marley’s ghost in chains 

revolting spectre, cancelling the feast 

we split and stacked our log pile neatly, under eaves 

reached hands towards the creak and crackle, winter’s glamour 

and solace found. 

The gardener’s pleached limes, rimed, 

out-stretching, insta photographed 

two word title, luscious 

beauty pouring like a balm.

30th December 2020 Hounoux, after Monty Don

No quiz? What a swizz!

 No Christmas in the quiz? What a swizz! 

Awake in the black, early morning 

(shocked by a shout, my own, don’t ask me what about) 

a creep of guilt begins to churn, turn and grumble 

mumble, cuss

tonight’s creep, unable to sleep 

how could I fail with the quiz? 

What a swizz! 

No Christmas for the chums in their Santa hats, sat 

waiting for tinsel and sparkle and fun 

for Dancer and Prancer, reindeer everyone

for rhymes about puddings, or why it’s ‘mince’ pie 

for Wenceslas’ page on the feast of St Stephen 

snow falling fast so it rhymed crisp and even 

the carol they sang in English and German 

those men in the trenches first Christmas in hell. 

We could have had questions on biblical stuff 

Joseph and Mary, that journey was tough 

the star in the east and the names of the Magi

the oddest of gifts and why they were chosen 

who wrote that poem- how the Wise Men were frozen? 

Stringing together these thoughts in a verse 

not soothing the conscience, it’s making it worse 

What fun we’d have had if I’d only remembered 

what all were expecting the eighteenth of December. 

So this is to say ( if you’re still bearing with me) 

I’m sorry for failing to season the quiz 

the fault is all mine and most surely not his. 

Maybe reschedule for feast of the kings? 

Though Friday’s the eighth, see what 2021 brings?  

I see through the window the sun rising in splendour! 

( Shall I insert a line here that praises transgender?) 

No, time to give up on a night with no sleep 

and pen  you this poem instead of count sheep. 

Thank you all dearest friends for our Fridays of fun 

They’ve been such a tonic, Covid life-savers every one. 

Half a moon waxing

 Half a moon waxing 

It was time of course to warm the oven 

prep the poultry, garlic lemon

slice various vegetables 

But in the east a tint was blooming 

pink on purple deepening 

not to be ignored, yearning for words 

some novel juxtaposing, hungry for poetry 

clinched and sealed the search and forward,  push and pull 

by the sight and symbol bright 

white and slowly silvering 

of half a moon, waxing, still, serene 

at dusk’s descending, closing

dip of day. 

25th November 2020 Hounoux 

All enclosed within

 All enclosed within 

In November 

on a day of mist and grey

cloud hung over the valley 

colour-muted, cold, just eight degrees 

how good to stoke a fire

paper, logs fresh-split and sticks 

match lit, fire-lighters tang and flare

a glow and crackle shift of wood, settling 

as fire ignites and primitive,  my heart is glad 

and comforted. 

Light and lift before the heat

the safety in the circle, hearth glowing 

all enclosed within 

what’s wild and wolf, wind in the stack 

dread and chill, winter all unglamorous 

withheld 

as indoors warms and glows 

like memories of childhood, flicker firelight family 

the safety in the circle, hearth glowing 

November’s gift and gladness 

all enclosed within. 

November 22nd 2020 Hounoux  

Not sugaring the pill

Not sugaring the pill 

No one nowadays of course is obfuscating

sugaring the pill

disguising a difficult truth, infantilising 

(I wonder about that change, was it gradual or overnight 

a radical departure, no more beating round the bush, are we all clear? ) 

So you’ll find yourself across a desk, receiving news, unwelcome, no punches pulled 

undodgable as a bullet, with illustrations- hand drawn to be helpful -

and even in a foreign tongue, with one of us hard of hearing 

translation’s obvious and though your man declares ‘no fire’

no urgent need for action

yet in a trice you’re strapped in and that conveyor belt is rumbling , at a pace, breath-taken 

while your brain scrambles to keep up 

and frankly I’m glad for the briskness and speed 

best have it out, cut it free 

the cancer, the tumour quietly growing 

tentacles creeping, enemy unseen 

Now in the aftermath, anaesthetic, keyhole cut

the neatest trick and miracle, staff meticulously trained

such skill and kindness, overwhelming 

I reflect, surprised, how all was relatively calm, no panic

though death it seemed came one step closer

breathed on my neck, while cancer chilled the air. 

I thought instead of love and all the life I’ve lived

the loveliness of legacy 

my line descending, branching, going forward, twenty-first century 

where the far horizon’s  shining 

as the sunrise lights the sky. 

11th November 2020, Hounoux. 

We, who live in rainbows

 We, who live in rainbows 

Those of us, she said, who live in rainbows

and I saw Pollyanna’s prisms strung 

across the room 

so rainbows danced upon the walls and swung 

then more of them, spectra, red to violet

In bubbles floating 

or caught in the bevel, light and lovely 

around the mirror’s edge. 

And I am glad for the colour wheel spinning 

the wonder of white, the light splitting and spilling 

all of the richness the cool and the hot

complement and clash, riot and rush

for Oz in Technicolor 

crimson, scarlet, peach or rose 

butter and gold, hayfields in summer, 

spring as it’s leafing, fern, lichen, moss 

for sky blue, sea green, aqua, turquoise 

indigo, violets, Victoria plum

for what she said 

and bliss it is 

for those of us who live in rainbows. 

14th October 2020 Hounoux 

Monochrome in the morning

 Monochrome in the morning 

On the water, sea through silhouetted pines

monochrome in the morning 

the sun’s a pathway silvering, from shore to horizon 

like flaming arrow’s flight, bright 

Catalonia this morning 

September’s softer sun 

September 29th 2020, Tamariu 

 

It’s a gift

 It’s a gift 

It’s a gift as I wake in the morning 

the sun in the east rising, across the six square panes, 

four full of sky, two where the landscape’s fields divided 

hedges, trees

slowly tinged and tinting, gaining depth and shadows, definition 

as the sun in the east rising, pinks and gilds 

streaks by palette knife applied, unstinting 

a gift in the morning dawning, soul-soother

unfurrowing the brow and heart

de-creased before the day’s begun. 

October 9th 2020, Hounoux 

It took a village

 It took a village 

We dressed the tent ( mercifully a marquee, withstood the gales and rain, cold in torrents) 

with greenery fresh-picked 

twined and twisted, looped on Ros’s rope 

tastefully in swags, plus careful placement, roses 

white and blue and Tory-conference ribbons

floppy bows 

and all night long the weather did its worst 

but no one’s spirits flagged. 

Undampened in our finery we gathered in the street 

separate and masked, happy but no hugs 

when arm in arm and radiant 

the couple came

the bride in 50s Hepburn frock, the groom

proud of his prize, 

Isn’t she  lovely! 

Lady Beverley, smiles and dimples

deep and bright today. 

And so the village, all the friends

from Léran and Beyond 

together on this day, so many skills 

profiterole perfection, lights lit

Zoom by magic, bringing the whole world here

tears shed and shared, Canada and England, France 

Linda and Nicky, their perfect words 

Jean, click click Canon, Mairie, bridge, château. 

So finally across the many miles

years and tears, separation isolation

WhatsApp zoom and heroncam 

it took a village, all of us,  love and friendship 

hands virtual and real together held 

more marvellous in the midst of gloom 

the joy and laughter

such a perfect day

their wedding day today.

October 4th 2020 Hounoux, for John and Beverley 

High in the sky today

 High in the sky today 

That sky alone today, without a cloud, shining 

in all those shades, not always easy to achieve 

painter, palette, canvas 

lightest along the line, horizon

as it rises from the earth 

through indigo and violet, over head 

luminous and lovely, mesmerising 

surely a piece of poetry, singing

high in the sky today. 

18th September 2020, Hounoux 

As a Beauty, fading

 

As a Beauty, fading 

It’s stilled here, silence hissing 

the landscape a painting laid out

lovely in curves and curls

langourous as a Beauty, fading 

summer’s passion spent 

even the clouds transfixed, and trees

barely a breath 

no creature crawls. 

Just me to contemplate

time and place, aeons, space

wide and wonderful 

a tapestry to mesmerise 

enchantment, hypnotising. 

13th September 2020, Hounoux. 

Memories, unpeeling

Memories, unpeeling 

The crow of a cock through the all night 

wide-open window 

a day so still, late summer hissing in the ear

like sea swoosh captured in a shell 

that boastful brag, attention-seeking  

cockadoodle call. 

It’s village India first, flat-out beneath the fan 

clack-clacking 

carried on the woodsmoke mixed-spice air

then clever as a Russian doll

Babushka peeled, revealed, 

neighbourhood rooster, francophone 

hence cocorico call

from student years, fast fading. 

And at its core, Babushka’s baby

my childhood home, scent of pine

wood pigeons on repeat 

salt and sea swoosh

crow of cock through the all night

wide-open window.

27th August 2020, Hounoux 

Daylily

Daylily 

Every second day, a lily 

six-petalled star 

in peach and cream and lime

child of the morning, lovely 

every second day, daylily 

ghost by dusk 

4th August 2020 Hounoux, for Ros ( not a Rain lily) Morley 

As countless bees

As countless bees 

Unpegged in the basket, sheets
dried by the sun 
powerful still, hot on my head 
though it’s supper time 
six chimes from the campanile clock 
loud in the hot sun hush. 
Tomato leaves are curling crisped 
thirsty SOS 
all in thrall, stunned by the sun 
and here the blooming bushes 
lavender, flower of the south 
happy with heat, with dry, with parched 
noisy now, loud hum and thrum
as countless bees, still busy 
day not done, dance 
dance in the evening sun. 

25th July 2020, Hounoux 

The beauty of snowflakes

The beauty of snowflakes 

Snowflakes they say, generically 
meaning no compliment, sneering 
so not beautiful, like feathers swan fluffed and fell 
not gorgeous as starlight, sugar-sweet shine 
a million million patterns, each unique design 
but something damp and feeble
not enduring, gone in a moment, come the sun 
no backbone no grit, tenacity- clearly none. 

And thus dismissed a generation born as the century changed 
one to specify, come trailing clouds of glory 
heaven-sent 
a child to bring a smile, her family’s delight  
and like her friends she learned of causes 
early made aware, ignorance not possible
when all the world’s on line. 
Now see them take a stand, object, reject
take step by step, some setbacks 
demons faced and fought. 
Clear and strong, Millennials’ song 
persisting insisting not feeble nor frail 
the beauty of snowflakes whirled in a storm 
hurl of the wind or the wolf in the cold. 
In the sound of their singing hear their story unfold. 

July 13th 2020 Hounoux, for Lily with love 

Oh look at the lily

Oh look at the lily 

Oh look at the lily 
calla, curled like a hand, cupping,
backwards somehow, a C
the curve of a D
or meerkats on tiptoe, perky, en garde 
or from another angle the swish of a ballgown
evening elegance
purple these and, viewed from above 
a champagne flute, finger deep 
as bubbles burst 
oh look at the lily
calla, cool creature
proud of her loveliness 

June 28th 2020 Hounoux 

Pleasing as pebbles

Pleasing as pebbles 

I’ve spent my days, long months of days 
when they were shapeless, stretched ahead 
no diaried dates nor outings scheduled 
actually proscribed 
and so instead the cricket matches
rolled, re-rolled, thwack of leather/ willow 
while Mikey’s mellow marvellous 
round and smooth, Jamaican tones
lilted like music, reggae beat. 

Or just as luscious here’s a poet in a shed
guests diverse with expertise and passions, various 
musician, poet, judge, a naturalist fanatical 
and him, the poet laureate 
musing on owl and nightingale 
setting the tone
not news, not graphs/ statistics, not all-pervading panic 
nor of course a panacea 
but still, like pause upon a bench 
in wisteria’s lime-bright shade 
mellow and marvellous, round and smooth 
pleasing as pebbles, the swoosh of the sea
a boon and a pleasure, perfect for me. 

26th June 2020 Hounoux 

Pianola scroll, rolling

Pianola scroll, rolling 

There’s a bird outside my window 
who is singing ceaselessly 
his notes in repetitions
daily delicious, dawn till dusk
this snatch of song, inherited 
imprinted in his DNA
his egg, fledging 
encoded like a pianola scroll, 
rolling out
just this tune his given
no riffing, cutting loose
free-stying not his lot. 
As the sun comes up each morning 
and the moon goes from sliver to full
he opens his throat and exuberance 
extravagant, sweetens the springtime air. 

June 3rd 2020 Hounoux  

The enchantment of my days

The enchantment of my days 

I’ll raise a glass for poetry

shake a tambourine in praise

for the lift it gives my spirit

the enhancing of my days 

For the words arrayed so beautifully 

for euphony and sound 

for the rhythm and the rhyming 

that will make my pulses pound

I’ll rejoice in all the magic

conjured by the poet’s art 

in the verse that triggers laughter 

or knocks sadly at my heart 

In the memories of moments 

buried deep but only sleeping 

childhood hours in search of sticklebacks 

the shock of froglets leaping 

So if I wake despondent 

ravelled cares sleep failed to smooth

I’ll reach for bedside treasury 

and the laureate who soothes 

Or I’ll plunge into some Elliot 

Little Gidding, coffee spoons 

where I’m groping towards meaning 

diving deep and reading runes 

Yes I’ll sing a song for poetry

riff on saxophone in praise 

for the life-affirming loveliness 

the enchantment of my days 

2nd June 2020 Hounoux 

The tenderness of cuttings

The tenderness of cuttings 

There are days and days for wondering 
stretched ahead 
no end it seems in sight. 
Don’t try to specify 
the what or when or why
August perhaps? Or autumn, winter 
turning of the year? 
All dates and plans suspended, poised, un-diaried
peer though we might, not visible. 
And so it is the rose in bud
or last year’s geraniums pink as pink 
trailing in torrents abundant 
and yesterday’s treasure, lacy and cream
all over elderflower spread 
or ten minutes still and listening 
Is that the nightingale’s song?
The tenderness of cuttings, lavender and sage 
undrooped, 
and climbing beans, climbing 
tomatoes too up steely stakes
curling, installation art. 

And glad I am for poetry
for art in all its forms 
for somewhere to go when I’m wondering 
no end it seems in sight 
for a plan to place those pebbles 
round in a Fibonacci swirl
to dwell on the swoosh of the sea 
millenia, smoothing and soothing 
Beauty brimming  everywhere, priceless
and everywhere offered free. 

25th May 2020 Hounoux 

Summer in May

Summer in May 

After days of grey, white skies 

colourless, rain on the panes

dispiriting 

what joy instead for the orange and red 

poppies in splashes, grow where they will

for the blue in pots in troughs in tubs 

and all of the sky, the distant hills

for pinks and purples, peaches

roses in riot, sun after rain

birdsong and bees

west wind in the trees. 

There’s colour and movement and song in the dance 

kaléidoscope tumbles, patterns by chance 

and after the colourless rainy grey 

hurrah for the miracle come today 

for the joy and the hope now there’s summer in May.

May 21sr 2020 Hounoux 

Slowed to a walking pace.

Slowed to a walking pace

Had I chanced upon this film, or Netflix series 
grazing, and for want of other 
I would have jeered, the very premise 
preposterous, for heaven’s sake, whatever next
some fevered mind unleashed 
alien and unlikely as bug-eyed monsters 
green, with tentacles. 
Yet somehow now, not entirely sudden, but tiptoeing in at first 
- you had perhaps to be alert 
not dreaming of Brexit Day, nor flaunting cleverness 
not spouting lumps of Latin, when a COBRA meeting called 
yes, you had to be alert- 
for something big was coming 
silent as snow overnight, transforming 
smothering the Life Before, a blanket on the fire 
a giant’s hand to halt the traffic, hushing streets and squares 
behind closed doors, cribbed and confined 
corona rules applied, all human life locked down. 

In days the world reformed, stilled on its axis
slowed to a walking pace 
and hard it is to take this in 
to break old habits, stop the spin 
but here we are, astonished, premise preposterous 
no choice, no voice, a new world ordering
new rules new customs everywhere applied 
and some will fret for what is gone 
and some for what’s to come 
but nowhere there are answers 
mighty Google’s speechless, dumb.
So we sit in isolation
hold our breath collectively 
we reflect on what’s important 
and we pray it will survive 
in a world of transformation
stilled upon its axis
slowed to a walking pace. 

May 1st 2020 Hounoux 

Red letter day

Red letter day 

Lockdown days are groundhog
repetitious 
over again over again 
Monday to Sunday monotony
hard to distinguish, one from another 
no red letter days remain 
no change of scene, routine 
over again over again 
all colour leached, washed out
bleached
life become monochrome 

How precious then a call from a friend 
a virtual date for a coffee, high tea, apéros  
a birthday party by Zoom 
or WhatsApp chat 
baking together, biscuits or buns 
quizzes for fun, haikus and limericks 
artistic endeavours, challenges, cheer 
a call from a friend, lifting the gloom
via Zoom 
relieving the monochrome 
electric connections, sparkle and shine 
rainbows in a prism
sent down the line 
full spectrum flooding the monochrome the grey 
from out of the paintbox 
hurrah for the highlight
the floodlight 
red letter day 

April 21st 2020 Hounoux 

The merciful lee

The merciful lee

Three weeks now since I walked this way 
though it’s permitted, new world order 
from the front door, in the merciful lee
the house a bulwark, windbreak 
while the Marin howls and buffets 
damp from the east, persistent 
even the tallest, pine, acacia, 
bent to its caprice, ill-will. 
But here in the calm the sun is warming 
bright on the flags, Iris, goddess of the rainbow, 
her tall white stems tumbled in disarray 
with tulips too, yellow streaked red
Catalonia’s colours 
and an edge of heather, seriously pink presence 
after all these years, the once small twig 
confidently grown. 

And so the sun, the wind not battering 
light and bright, warm as summer 
focus on flowers in splashes. 
Inhale exhale smile in the moment
the merciful, lovely, lee.

April 7th 2020 Hounoux

The lockdown days

The lockdown days 

These are the days the lockdown days
Monday to Sunday muddled, unclear 
even the months conjoined
all dates significant and signposts, blending and blurred
timetables mostly suspended. 
And now instead there’s green or red 
doctors differentiating
graph upon graph, not flattening 
numbers that make us gasp
fearful progression, monstrous 
NHS staff, esteemed at last
doing their duty, brave 
and scientists experts enlisted, implored 
what must we do to be saved? 
Plus the numberless workers, suddenly key
as now we see
‘tis they keep the world’s wheels turning. 
Oh what can we do in Corona time
the contactless separate lockdown days
all of us waiting, suspended? 

Go with Joe Wicks, strive to stay fit
deep breaths and yoga, keep calm 
take up a challenge, paintbrush or dance 
clear out the loft or cellar? 
Garden for Britain battle those weeds 
in hope for the future, plant seeds? 

For these are the days, the lockdown days
does this virus come with a warning? 
When all of the world is turned on its head
and systems of value, shattered, dead
maybe time for a rethink, shake-up, wake-up
time to review, re-evaluate
reflect on what’s precious, held dear
what’s prized beyond rubies and gold. 
As we long for the touch and the comfort of love 
and in hope for the future, plant seeds. 

3rd April, locked down in Hounoux. 

A pause upon the world

A pause upon the world 

After a while of cupboard clearing, shredding,
therapeutic scrub and scour 
of this to keep and that discard
clothes hung in rows or neatly folded
shoes in pairs, dust in balls 
dispelled, expelled all fluff and clutter
after a while the pile and file 
so many tasks longtime un-done
filling the locked-down days

And blessed here our landscape’s lovely 
yellow as yolks and striped in lime
spring confidently sprung, birdsong loud
and bees, ceaseless busy 

But here’s the thing, the daily shock and bombshell 
entire globe’s nightmare waking 
microscopic enemy triumphant and multiplying
has us powerless, by the throat 
and surely in the stillness sudden and the silence 
such a pause upon the world 
we must hear the planet breathing 
hear the message, voiceless plea. 

Think on all the mindless damage
earth despoiled in callous greed
over-warmed the mighty oceans
Arctic glaciers melting gone 
emissions filth pollution 
plastic massing, chokes the sea
this the moment virus moment
whole world paused, to listen, think
hear the warnings, planet breathing
hear the message, voiceless plea.

March 29th 2020, locked down Hounoux. 

How sorely missed

How sorely missed 

Yesterday the Marin blew, hard and howling 
damp from the sea
in a white sky, no blue no sun 
only the roar and the hurl 
and windless now the day is bleached, emptied 
the silence thick and drumming 
the oddest day
emptied, drained like a swamp
no frogs 
all colour and contact, warmth and chatter, interaction
silent now and stilled...

...all busy-ness on planes and trains 
motorways and rush hours, crush and crowd
the soup and swirl of germs in droplets
multiplying, invisible and deadly
Covid-19, bred on bats or pangolin
quixotic possibility 
come creeping, Assyrians as wolf on the fold 
death knell, tolled and tolled
this year’s winning plague 
culling the herd.

How sorely missed the touch, the kiss 
double or treble, Gallic greeting 
locked down in bunker, hunkered with the rolling 
tolling, terrifying news 
we knit and sew and weed and trim 
painting and poetry solitary, not forbidden
and interact by telephone, send virtual hugs
battle bugs, with soap and hand wash, sanitisers

Observe the birds, unfazed
busy for spring 
song of the blackbird, glorious 
there’s budding unseasonal, globally warmed 
but heedless, responding to signals
they’re doing their thing
busy for spring
only our world turned upside down 
our getting and spending cribbed and confined
all colour and contact, warmth and chatter, interaction 
silent now and stilled. 

And now we know 
of course it’s so
how sorely missed, the touch the  kiss 
the dear and daily contact, real 
not virtual. 

19th March 2020 Hounoux 

Lost lives

Lost lives 

From sodden ferns unfurling 
the rain unceasing fell
a backdrop and a metaphor 
while church bells tolled and bullets rang 
and blood was in the gutters. 

The music ominously rose 
then fell in dying fugue
as bombs and buildings blew apart 
a symphony in smashing glass 
while women screamed and lives were lost 
and all the world was grieving. 

Murmuration silhouetted, black upon the blue
one mournful trumpet blown 
for thirty years, tears poured on tears 
daily the death toll rising
lost lives in thousands, piteous 
a tragedy to contemplate 
impossible to bear. 

10th March 2020 Hounoux 

Not fool’s gold

Not fool’s gold 

It’s just a daily habit
thoughtless as brushing teeth
or pushing the pedals on exercise bike
clocking the miles, raising a sweat. 
So be where it’s still, just paper and pen 
listen and breathe, wait to receive 
maybe an idea is forming 
haiku today, or verse run free
rhyming or random
Couplets in mètres or practically prose
who knows? 

Panning with patience, knee-deep in the stream
watch for the glitter not fool’s gold, the gleam 
sifting and sorting, dross through the sieve 
rejoice for the nugget, the shine, the sheen 
rejoice for the treasure trove. 

March 4th 2020 Hounoux 

For look, here’s a book

It all began with a Moleskine, pristine
white pages daring:
Go on, start
Make a mark 
Summon the words, arrange, rearrange
never mind the scratch and scrubbing
disorder, chaos on the page
the wrestling into shape
is it done, words spun
sufficient sparkle and polish? 
Squint from a distance, peer at it close
say it into the silence 
deep breath, next step... 

Up on the internet, bold in a blog 
go well my child, released to the wild 
first poem out there on the web
and ten years on the progeny
so many now and varied 
down from the ether, returned 
arranged, rearranged 
much artful editing 
And I’m glad for the Moleskine daring: 
Brave start
Make mark
for look, here’s a book 
my self revealed, my soul
spilled on the pristine page. 

February 28th 2020 Hounoux