there is a time to be at peace
there is a time to ask no questions
there is a time to stop all wandering thoughts
lay quite still and feel
there are times of such perfection
i wonder if they’re real
time is always passing
no joy or pain is lasting
here beside the fire
listening to your breath
there is quiet satisfaction
in open simpleness
You should have been buried here
amongst the beans, the peas, the potatoes,
the rhubarb, spearmint and lavender,
the rose buds of hot afternoons
and the berries of winter cold,
in the land that you cultivated,
weeding and planting and hoeing
in the evenings long shadows of Spring.
Instead your ashes were spread
several miles from a desolate home,
left alone,
scattered on lawns and concrete
amid roses that nobody loves.
I would leave you posies of pansies
picked from your overgrown beds
where so little you planted survives
– if i was sure where you are
She went out when he came in,
they lived inside a weather-house.
They found the decor very strange.
Their hearts were in a dreadful spin.
She was quiet as a mouse
but Hatter wasn’t quite deranged,
not at the moment seasons change.
Sometimes time will stand quite still
and when that hopeful moment came
they built a new house on a hill,
they found a place they both could fit.
If Alice shrinks or grows quite tall
Hatter fails to notice it.
It has no consequence at all.
And when his moods are quite bizarre
he never walks off very far.
Which only shows,
you never know
which way next a story goes.
this old pub
on a Sunday morning
both i and the timbers
soaked in stale beer
from the night before
my mouth is like sawdust
my head thumps
as the cricket bat
thwacks the ball
on sports TV
massive screen
too loud for me
the old guys in the corner
squint up at it
between backgammon moves
at their table
as they crunch
through their crisps
and pork scratching
my eyes droop
and I’m drifting
through galaxies
the stars turn
and spin me
into older stories
the challenge and change
of the days of old glories
are lost in a haze
stamped out
by lethargy
and drooping inaction
as we watch the big screens
that swallowed us all
the boats rock at their moorings
i can smell the sun on your skin
and all night the sea salt stays
in the tangles of your hair
i stroke the curve of your near thigh
as the morning sun rises
i await your opening eyes
the clouds are moving fast above
clearing to blue skies, pale horizons,
a distant curve stretched water-wide,
and still you lay in dreams,
lulled by the waves of sleep,
while I dream myself wide awake
I dragged him down the road with me,
our life in carrier bags.
Nothing ever lasted long,
the good times or the bad.
He had no choice, nor did I.
With each inflicted change
the world was re-arranged.
We never had a peaceful home
that we could call our own.
I was lost,
I was young,
he was my loyal son.
I didn’t have a map.
I hope our road
through right and wrong,
was honest and had heart.
but bad luck played its part.
Some say I had courage.
Some say I was wild.
I’ll accept the judgment of
the man that was my child.
if we all came crawling through trench wire,
torn,
back into life,
would our politicians and leaders
listen
or would our message be smothered in mud
as we sink back
into despair?
our death
and our words
have not been enough
We recently heard of sightings
in a nearby Nottingham wood.
(As far as we ascertain
there is no link to Robin Hood
and no clear reference to Folk Lore
though we will investigate more).
A family out on a picnic,
wandered deep into the forest
to a pleasant clearing
beside a flooded stream,
where they came upon a scene
reminiscent of Arden
and Shakespeare’s Midsummer Dream.
This is what they found;
upon a grassy mound
small figures in pointed hats,
entirely dressed in green,
were prancing hand in hand,
spinning around in a circle,
their feet just above the ground.
Their faces were not clearly seen.
There is no report of wings.
The light was reported as hazy,
and the turf described as soft.
A small king stood at the centre
holding a lamp aloft.
The family stood in shock,
rooted to the spot,
and watched him as he sauntered
to a sturdy leaf of dock
where he sat in dignified leisure
and, possibly over-heated,
fanned himself quite a lot
with an unidentified leaf.
To be brief;
A gentleman of the party
moved for a closer look
but failed to stifle a cough.
(The local pollen count was high.
I don’t claim fairy dust).
The small creatures all ran off
at incredible speed.
The family looked about for a time,
searching the nearby weeds
which had sprung up all around
but no sign of the small folk was found.
Our colleague, Marjorie Johnson,
having studied the correspondence,
found one further eyes witness
who claimed to have seen the same elves
about a decade before.
There is more.
This witness on many occasions
saw leaves and varied twigs,
laid out in a curious fashion,
beneath an ancient Ash.
Marjorie made the decision
to visit the site herself
(as she frequently does).
She left in the middle of May.
She has not returned to date.
We informed the local police
who conducted a thorough search,
finding her camera and glove.
Please advise. Don’t delay.
We must avert a scandal.
We need a Press Release.
Please note:
We found a long lost manuscript
from the early Tudor era
stating that, in this forest,
frequently over the years
as the month of June drew nearer,
people had disappeared.
We cannot continue to hope.
She never answers when I call
but sits alone and mutters
or goes amongst the old ash trees
and whispers to the leaves.
I can’t decipher all she says,
the words are never plain,
but the music of their pattern
is always much the same.
She plays with mud and twigs
and lays them out repeatedly
in one ornate design.
Like hieroglyphs
they seem to have significance,
but she won’t write her name.
Her teachers and her parents
are much disturbed by her.
They say she’s on the borderline
of a broad and complex spectrum
that I don’t understand.
I ask, in jest, if she might be
a special rainbow child.
No-one smiled.
I’m here as the au pair.
I just let her play.
We have to get away.
There is avoidance in her eyes.
She simply won’t obey.
That much is very clear.
They want her analysed.
I know she’s wild
but I have secrets
I am not prepared to share.
She chases hawks away from mice.
She calls the birds to comb her hair
and lets them hide in there.
When she sleeps the owl hoots twice,
the fox creeps from its lair
and sidles past my fireside chair
to rest all night contented,
dreaming at her feet.
The family is complete.
She’s turbulent.
She’s troublesome.
She’s stubborn
and she’s free.
She’s very gifted too,
but we won’t let them see.
I know it’s very strange indeed,
a little fae for sure.
She’s always been my own sweet child,
there’s no changing that.
We have to make a plan
and spin it very soon.
I must discuss it with my cat
before the next full moon.
We landed here at 2am and found a room quite quickly. We were woken by a loud cock crow, the day already hot. The pungent smell of joss-sticks, so soon, was slightly sickly. The best way to describe this place is in terms of striking contrasts; what it is and what it’s not, the overwhelming culture shock, the hustle and the bustle, the vibrancy of colour, shocking pink and saffron, the noise, the poor, an elephant and walls ornately painted, a two-ton truck, a blaring horn, blue fumes (I nearly fainted). The piles of marigolds outside the little temples, the clack of tractor engines, used as generators everytime the power goes off, the way the people stare at us as children crowd around us, the beauty of the gentle Brahman cows, the buzzing flies, the incense, the spices and the cedar wood, an assault upon the senses. And all of this is what we saw before we found our breakfast! (Where a chattering monkey stole my orange). All life is here. Deprived and yet abundant.
The Dreaming Path 