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.  

Bread and Roses

Bread and Roses

In the grey and smudge of charcoal sunless sky

landscape sodden

though the wheat is green as spring amidst the dun

and standing water winks and shines

at such a time, and never  mind the worse than grey

the blackest black and red, the dread and horror

in spurts and spewing, 

so all our lives defiled, contamination's spread

still, if pen is put to paper

paint to canvas, palette knife with boldness, could it be

that something good survives,

in such a soil inimical, could thrive

become a poppy, field of poppies, Owen's Anthem

Guernica?

When the world is mired in winter, out of kilter, gone to hell

time to fight for bread and roses

put the pen to poetry

fill our hearts as well as bodies

all together stitch the banner, craft pink hats in sisterhood

light one candle, light a million

hold them high and let them shine.

March 24th, Hounoux and Wells, for my Arty-Farty sisters with love

Perfection replicated

Perfection replicated 

We set off walking cold and clear, all muffled, 
scarves as masks
mid afternoon but little doubt the sun was dropping 
inch by inch and lighting in its path the crests,
the snaggled  teeth of giants turning peach to coral
then beaten copper glow- and lo! 
The  gorgeous spectacle, crepuscular 
twilight's alpine glow. 

And where the lake is curved we stopped to wonder
as it doubled, symmetry 
for pinks were in the water, and aqua, navy blue
all along the rocky range, a panorama left to right
perfection, replicated. 

January 2nd 2017, Hounoux 

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.)