It's territory shared

It’s territory shared

Soaking sun in silence by the pool                                                                                            

late September, no tractors yet,

the grapes this year delayed,

I’m hearing Yeats, bean rows, honey-hives

and golden apples of the sun

in luscious Irish lilt.

And Hopkins too

as brindled, dappled, couple-coloured

moths and butterflies dance  by

or pause for me to name: Painted Lady, Red (not Orange) Underwing.

Now all the air is busy-

Pied Flycatchers fly sudden upward, then just as sudden drop.

Entire family here, extended, surely not one brood

and this, the boundary of our land,

distinctly theirs also.

It’s territory shared.

So all the way from Africa

to ours/ their summer place

no satnav, year on year unerring

their returning, timeless rhythm

poetry.

29th September 2013, Hounoux. 

Noli Timere

Noli Timere

I take my tea to the circle

right on the garden’s edge

dwelling on Seamus Heaney, poet constantly,

though blood and tears ran with the rain

spattered walls and horror

ruled in his land

I sip my tea as the Marin blows

rattling the figs’ dry leaves.

Did he write in the anguish to let it out,

to ease the heart’s pounding pain

or hot as his anger boiled,

or out of respect, marking the loss

a wail as the bagpipes lament?

Noli timere

his last words, a text to comfort his wife

and me, with my tea,

clutched on the curving bench

raising evermore thanks for his courage and gift

to deal with the dark, to mine from unspeakable depths;

for poetry’s beacon, holding the line

a marker to grasp when the flood’s in spate

and horror has the upper hand.

7th September 2013, Hounoux

Sky

Sky 

Some days it is all about the landscape; fields, trees and mountains shimmering

colours patched and matched,

but this long week the gauge has risen, hot and ever hotter

so we bake and barely breathe, seek shade.

Only the birds are moving, chaffinch, dove, swift

and pale butterflies flit;

but clouds are still, puffed and pulled, cirrus in strands

static;

a thing of beauty joy for ever,

watch and wonder

sky

16th July 2013, Hounoux

As countless birds gave song

As countless birds gave song

Surely a poem here she said

bent among the canes, red with raspberries

as the mountains floated, blue on cloudless blue

still a frosting, extraordinary, on the summit

swifts sickle-scythed in sudden loops,

a serin from the pine top poured its all, sweet notes,

lavender, honeysuckle and roses, slightly run amok

mixed heady scents;

and all the July air was filled

as countless birds gave song. 

6th July 2013, Hounoux by the pool, for Wendy with love 

Fete de la Musique

Fête de la Musique

It was cold that day

winterish in June and even rain was threatened.

We wondered, would they come

to the huge-capacity barn, not warm,

wind whistling through the gaps.

What call for opera deep in rural France

we wondered, would they come?

But come they did, nombreux, in droves

all that wonderful weekend

for opera and jazz (with brunch) woodwind and pop

(circa 1960), then Grand Finale, Gloria!

Sacred music in the church.

What a gift he has and o so generously shares

the choir master, chef,

all of us, the international troupe somehow imbued

a magic conjuring trick

with notes and keys and musicality.

Together, sixty strong, we stood and watched his baton

followed where he led

raised our  voices, sang from our souls

and shared something sublime.

July 5th 2013, Hounoux, for Alan Simmons in appreciation