Author: A. Gouedard

At the Water Meadow

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After three days of sunlight

the May bursts forth,

shining white stars amongst hedgerow leaves.

In the marshlands tall grasses wave feathered plumes of gold and cream,

tender on green silken stems.

The sycamore bedecked in bright green catkin tails sways in a gentle breeze,

a reminder of lambs.

A blackbirds sings atop the cedars outstretched limbs,

a dark silhouette against bright blue sky.

Dandelions with sun-filled faces

spread across suddenly verdant pasture.

The air is filled with the scent of new mown grass,

fresh cut blades scatter at the grey roads side

as I wander home in the falling light.

 

At my door,

one dandelion forces its way upwards

through the red tiles of the doorstep,

spring strong, shining,

a signal that summer comes.

 

Life bursts into bud

quiet fanfare for summer

warmth, wonder, delight.

Love is equally enlightening.

 

Animals

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I had a cat, shy and nervous,
afraid of big boots.
He had been kicked i am certain.

I had a dog, strong and loyal,
afraid of large crowds and noise.
He had been beaten for sure

My horse was afraid of nothing.
At the sound of a post-horn
he would be off, without me.
He would kick down any stable door,
and gallop, strong-headed for fields.
He could clear a five bar gate
when the wind blew his tale.
But gentle and mild to me, at rest,
as the dearest of lambs,
his ears twitching to the sound of my words
with his head on my shoulder,
falling asleep

I loved every one of them,
my horse, my cat and my dog.
They gave me themselves

Beyond the Loss

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from high above looking down on the land
there are signs of all that is gone
churches sit on old sacred sites
scattered across the earth
the motorway swallowed the village pond
the sea eats away at the shore
the old forests all gone to ships
gone to ashes and war

i see the ramparts of Rome
Legions lost in the earth
Saxon barrows and Norman walls
Celtic graves, the breaking of stones,
gone, in a battle for power
all for nothing

the land and the word lives on
the rhyme, the history, the song
deeper than dust
deeper than bone
finer, truer, strong

Fingertips

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Where was it, who was I and when?

A dream, almost remembered on waking

But gone, almost, just out of reach,

There at the back of my minds eye

Imprinted, unfocused yet real.

Was it long, or in passing, brief,

When was it our fingertips touched?

Just beyond reach is a thought of you,

A word on the tip of my tongue,

A perfume caught, a breeze recalled,

A scent I know but can’t name.

If I don’t think about it, I’ll know.

Now it is, what it was, what it is.

I like it so.

The Death of my Blood

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I died out on these moors, my bones are here.

I feel them in the pooled reflections in mud,

the wind in the bare gorse and the crows’ flight.

 

Later, in the mines, under weight of rock

darkness enfolded around me. No hope.

I knew I would die when the lamp guttered out.

 

The next time I was spared the mines labour.

Instead they sent me off to their war in France.

No grave when a shell blows flesh apart.

 

Many times I have died at my fireside.

I once burned in  flames for heresy.

Never have I died in the sea.

 

The death I would wish for is the pure one

with the mist and the crow on the moor,

to rest in my own land forever at home

 

Christmas

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what do I think of Christmas?
let me think
deep
I want to tell the truth

when I was a child
it was carols,cards and Christmas bells
a big family
the ones now mostly dead
tales they told
magic filled my head

and a wish for snow

grown
I made a new family
with children of my own
a hearth and home
the house was full of friends,
music, love, childrens’ voices,
laughter, power cuts
as the village crashed the grid
we didn’t care
the fire and lanterns lit
magic light

and a wish for snow

it stayed that way for years
the table set
the kitchen hot
the windows steamed
my parents came to stay
I see it all on adverts now
happy children
the crowded table
the lovers special gift

the pretty sparking snow

now I sit in a house
with my mother
she is very old
thinking this may be her last
we talk about the past
Christmases before
I wasn’t even born
I keep the winter chill
from my heart

I think it’s sure to snow

I think of those
outside alone
no place to go
remind myself I’m lucky
it could be me

out there in the snow