Poetry or paint?
This hot peak-wave, heat-wave
sun stunning day, already the landscape flattened, panting
languid I watch and wonder
poetry or paint
thick spread and sliding, butter/palette knife
fiery flowers like flags
spectrum in a sprinkler, pooling
sweet relief, small breeze, some shade
poetry or paint?
22nd June 2026 Hounoux
Beyond our reach
The tiny feeder’s empty so no birds fly back and forth
I miss them as the pine boughs dip and sway
the wind from the east rising again, three days blowing
although the sky is blue with dreams of summer
and blousy tulips fill the pots.
Slow days lengthening, crochet blanket and its baby growing
the comfort of routine,
a song of loveliness with minor chords beneath
the grip of worry, grief, the price we pay
for those we cherish, suffering
beyond our reach.
April 14th 2026 Hounoux
On memory’s winter tree
On January’s last gasp chill day, dripping
monochrome
across your threshold what delight!
in warmth and light and welcome.
And so an afternoon that glowed
good food and conversation shared
poetry and painting
a fragile bubble blown in glass
now hung, swung, on memory’s winter tree.
February 2nd 2036, Hounoux, for Josette and Andrew.
There’s a poem in my window
There’s a poem in my window, shining
top left, Honesty penny, a half crown newly minted
looming through the gloom
and suddenly the drear day brightens.
Perhaps I will after all unwrap that canvas
stark and daunting
set it where some faint fingers of November light creep in
squeeze careful blobs, turquoise orange gold
bold palette
take up the roller, paint knife, wet the brush
and high board, tiptoe, tremble,
take the plunge.
November 14th 2025 Hounoux
Heaven’s ballet I suppose
October skies are wide here
from sunrise east to Canigou
sentinel on the way south, to Catalonia and beyond
dawns that dazzle, well worth the early hour
and then the clouds, cotton clumps a child might draw
all along a line, tracking the horizon
steam train chuffing
or cirrus wisps
and often cloudless blue, cerulean, sky backlit
The earth still warm at supper time
when suddenly as sunset flames, a harvest moon is hung
copper, huge
now in the eastern sky
silently displaced, heaven’s ballet I suppose
in October’s wide wide skies.
13th October 2025, Hounoux
In spite of me
The high heat stuns and stultifies
reducing a walk to a creep
slowing all thought, making muzzy
and sweet relief the blue and silver
dancing water, swimming pool.
With froggy strokes, ungainly
I count the slow lengths up and back
breathe in the heady jasmine scent
and watch the busy birds who dart among the secret fig tree
leaves and branches- a nest perhaps or just some blessed shade
respite fast grown from a stone
(in barren ground, small earth)
another bird once dropped
now swiftly higher than my head.
In spite of me and careless of my sun-slowed thoughts
the birds return, the planet turns
a seed is dropped and thrives
so many interwoven lives
circle and twine
as the high heat stuns and stultifies.
July 2nd 2025 Hounoux
Before the too-high heat
Now in the morning’s cool, before the too-high heat
mosquito buzz
the casement window’s wide
so volume’s high, the chorus loud
lead voice out and proud
the blackcap
his complicated warble strong and sweet.
Then higher pitched but clear above him
the tiny serin’s notes
and interwoven harmony, the blackbird’s well-known tune.
Now of course a sparrow’s tedious chirp
and underneath a wood pigeon’s steady coo
or better still, improved, the turtle dove
and once, astonishing, a trill of flute from Golden Oriole!
All in the morning’s cool
a daily treat, identified by Merlin
become my friends, their voices I can name
singing the soundtrack
while the landscape’s still and silent
before the day, the busy-ness and buzz
the world’s intrusion
before the too-high heat.
Monday 16th June 2025, Hounoux for Clare
London to Brighton
There’s a life a life, a glimpse of a life
in a terrace a row where the railway runs
and weary I wonder and dream of the lives
for more than a century here
lining the railway, planting their plots
a tree grown as tall as the roof
stories in storeys
always an ear to the train
the rumble and roll
no longer the steam
rattling over the points.
The life, the life, in a pattern it runs
express to the seaside, the airport, the south
timetables, schedules, circadian rhythms
the daily the weekly unceasing it flows
and watching the window, a film all unspooling
city to seaside, allotments and parks, suburbs and fields
I dream of the lives all lining the railway
and out of the pen the black ink is flowing
disgorging the poem in lines and in verses
then into the station, a sigh and a silence
a full-stop complete at the end of the line.
April 9th 2025 , London to Brighton train
Psyche, I read
Psyche, I read,
in Greek’s a soul and equally
a butterfly
so I remember once I walked astonished
through a cloud in technicolour
swirling and spinning by the Indian Ocean
some large as my hand, settling, unsettling
like a cinematic scene
magical as Oz.
Patamouchi in Tamil
Can you hear them float and fly?
And mariposa, papillon, or German
schmetterling.
Always a word to set them free
out of the dull and earthbound
from caterpillar, chrysalis unfurling
smoothed and elegant
in perfect symmetry, the silent souls
ephemeral as beauty as they flutter
butterfly.
April 13th 2025 Hounoux
Today I watch the wind
Today I watch the wind jostling the long boughs
ends curled like Christmas trees, Aladdin’s shoes
ceaseless the fling
this wind is king.
In fly the birds, claws clinging as they’re swinging
the hyperactive blue tit, coal tit, acrobatic crew
out of the blue.
That glorious glow, backlit,
impossible to paint, cerulean
silenced to a sough now
relief and respite
picture window/ window picture
lovely through the glass.
April 3rd 2025 Hounoux
Fifteen orchestras she said
Fifteen orchestras, she said
in hell
the testament of a cellist, saved by her art
still, eighty years on, surviving
the beauty of a Christmas rose, white hellebore
in rocky winter bed
or convolvulus on a bombsite
truth and beauty intertwined, prevailing
life saved in the evil, the squalor
in hell.
27th January 2025 Hounoux . In honour of Anita Lasker.
The twelve
A whole week we had
so long anticipated, golden glowing
on all our horizons, and now afterwards
shining like a dream
Hot sun, sea September warmed
the shush and swoosh as shore breakers broke
and curled and pulled away.
We sat in the ten euro shade of our well-positioned parasol
and gossiped endlessly, astonished by thongs laughing
wriggled into swimsuits, braved the sea’s strong undertow
for the loveliness of clear blue green.
Alas for a silent jelly fish, and Michael sudden stung.
Long days begun with a rendez-vous at 8, the early morning dip
daily croissant shop, cycle rides and cliff side walks
of tapas at Blau in the heat of midday ( padron peppers! Chipirones! )
Plus two greyer days of Bridge and indoor games
amongst the group always someone for a chat
two Shirley curries, a Tucker quiz, who knew about ditloids,
brains well-teased, a trophy for Woznicas.
As always memorable meals as the sun went down, fire on the water
no golfers this year to pay our bill!
And yet in spite of Covid unwelcome uninvited
headache, sore throat and endless cough cough coughing
Llafranc 2024, one whole week, stretches out in memory, laughter and thongs
Catalonia and tapas, the blessed company of friends, the twelve
so long anticipated.
Blessings counted, blissful, this year’s magic on the Med.
October 2nd 2024 Hounoux, for dear friends
The magic box
I will put in the box
hot solstice night, full moon, fête de la musique
swifts wheeling and squealing
Woznica’s dancing in the street
2016, all of us hoping, surely, surely we’d remain
I will put in the box
Alan in his DJ raising his baton and his eye-brows
Ros with accordion, Moulin Rouge
the blessed cool of the church
our voices echoing
So many summer garden gatherings
Eileen’s pavlova, salads, tarts
sunsets over châteaux
Is that Penny on the phone?
Hugo and Alan, the American Songbook
tears and laughter
Art and pottery, exhibitions, poetry and plays
Cheryl behind a curtain helpless - as Clive and I got lost
or ditto Jo and Alan, improving on our scripts
the too-much drunken audience hysterical at le Stop
living the dream in the sun and the south.
I will put in my box a memory of lockdown
how we helped each other through
the Friday quizzes, friends in London, Canada
Leo’s Aussie authors, quite unknown
and always Andy, reluctant, dragged in by his wife
I will put in the box the annual excitement
trip to the Costa for sun and sea, sangria
Marek diving to search for a ring
the warmth of the water, the tapas in Calau
the Japanese meal and the tab our new friends paid!
My box has the scent of a parasol pine
It’s decorated with Zinnias and purple sprouting, gifted by Mike
inset with the silver songs of several shades of grey
for it is carved of love and friendships
true friends who care and call when things go wrong
found here in Léran and beyond
a miracle of magic in our triple-locked carte vitale rose-golden years.
19th August 2024, Hounoux
Dancing raisins
Sid sits with his grandad
(Sid’s surely a fan)
who’s patiently rebuilding his Rubik cube
despite his disability ( he’s colour-blind)
and we two septuagenarians smile
for Sid is special, has a quirky way with words.
He tells us of a classroom experiment entitled Dancing Raisins
( something to do with gases we assume, though Sid’s not clear)
but beautiful image, twenty seven children rapt, as the raisins after a brief pause
rise, rise and begin their dance
a rumba I’d like to think.
Later Sid tells us that yesterday, when the fog was in the valley
in our house on the edge of a French hill
the clouds came into his room.
I think of marshmallows floating and opportunities for bouncing
or maybe dancing like raisins.
Small moments , two grandparents listening
Sid’s world of enchantment.
29th July 2024 Hounoux, for the visiting Headeys
The blue, the blue
What with the mauve-blue rosemary and lilac
bee-loud as Innisfree, wisteria in festoons
all the hot sun day, blue day,
sharp scented, sweet
you’d want to take a brush or pen
canvas, paper, paint
squeezed tubes of blue in several shades, and gold
to gild and shine,
to hug and hold the cloudless hour
the birdsong, dancing bees
art’s fixative
this perfect April day
16th April 2024 Hounoux
Where once the serin
Where once the serin perched to sing
the sweetest high-pitched notes,
canary song,
his tree long moribund is axed, for safety first
despite my special pleading
for his spot, this destination
the miracle of annual return
bright tiny flyer
navigating here from Africa.
How many days and miles to our garden
behind the washing line, close by the damson tree
always the same bare branch
the flash of yellow, sweet high song
and me, rejoicing
for spring and his return.
17th March 2024 Hounoux
Mothers’ Day 2024
In the cut-out squares, pinked, so unfrayed
perfect
top left the sun at dawn
gilding the layered land.
Next the gift of tulips, purple, not yet languid
a swarm of tiny bees, mimosa flowers
then Lily’s memory of games we played
tea party in the fig tree (hidden)
Next row left to right, too-early blossom
plum and almond, bridal white,
Bee’s message to her mum, love letter
my mum, laughing.
Along the bottom, blessings
peaceful hours, log fire, the satisfaction of squares
complex pattern, dark and light
friends loved and lost.
Patchwork pieces, a one day, Sunday
legacy of loveliness.
March 11th 2024, Hounoux
I will put in the box
Not just one, instead a stack, shiny, clever
of tiffin boxes, tightly clipped
and first
that all-pervading everywhere aroma
woodsmoke, spices, dust
Indian essence
with blare and startle of horns and high-pitched peep
in and out auto, car, overloaded motorbike and bus,
wandering cow, munching
new road, three lanes, no rules apply, weave/wander
for gods sake stay alert!
Lime-green paddy waterlogged
houses in pink/ magenta/ turquoise, saris red and orange and yellow
flowers in your hair
here the hottest hues
no beige, no bland.
Like the past, another country
they do things differently here
although WhatsApp calls and Selfie! One more Selfie!
could fool you otherwise..
Noise and sweat and dust, crows at full volume
long wail of the train passing, over the points, over the points,
all filling the tiffin boxes, magical
between the sambas, rassam, rice and dhal, chapatti, dhosi, lentil cakes and idli, curd,
and special pyassam, warm milk with cashews, raisins, sweet treat.
All this is India, my India
plus mingled memories, the years of coming, from forty two to seventy five
mum to granny,
our friends once schoolboys fathers now and proud
scraping a living somehow, though ‘India small money ma’am’
but no tiffin tower, however tall, could hold it all
the light in their eyes, the smiles and the laughter
the namastes and hugs across the years and many miles
culture and language no barrier, not separated
nothing between us except love.
21st January 2024 Guest House Ruhsa
