Poetry
Before the Fall
Out of silence,
out of song
rise the mountains and the seas.
Out of mud,
out of slime,
ignited by a spark divine,
crawls the worm,
swims the fish.
The birds their muddied feathers clean.
Out of thought,
out of dreams,
springs the seed, the bud, the egg.
Beneath the trees the Lovers slept
awaiting the eternal beat,
while up above, in balance kept,
the stars formed patterns in the sky,
the sun and moon held pace with time.
Now sounds the drum
of wood and skin
to summon up the tribal kin
to join their hands
and stretch their limbs
in complex, crafted, leaping steps.
The dance of life and death begins.
Warmed by winds and gentle rains,
the harvest fruit is gathered in
with care and deep respect.
Spring, summer, winters cold,
all was pure and full of light,
before the weary world grew old,
before the garden, in neglect,
began it’s dreadful Fall
A Keening Wind
dust-raiser
deep-breather
timber-breaker
wild wave-whipper
widow-maker
shelter-spinner
shiver-shard
after raging, dying, passes
leaving debris in its path
gentle-giant
sound-weaver
surf-shifter
leaf-shaker
feather-ruffler
sigh-bringer
whispers at the window glass
whistles through the tiles and rafters
bringing cooling breeze at last
Dusk
as the evening sun goes down
wild geese fly above the town
a circling pattern in grey skies
with creaking wings and hooping cries
as the darkening hour grows late
i feel that i could levitate
The Bed
this daily journey, marked by constant icy rain,
filling streams and hiding tears,
brings me to this silent bed again
outside the windows, blossoms slowly fall in gentle wind
but these are not the flowers she see
as she leaves here, by degrees
Our house (a letter to my grandfather)
I went to the old house today. For you it was the last house.
I went down into the kitchen garden. It was a tangle, overgrown, and gone to weeds.
The pony shed was falling into ruin. You used to leave your muddied boots out there. They were gone of course.
The pear and apple trees still bare fruit.
The plums look especially good this year.
The rooks still nested in the poplar trees.
I went back in, to the kitchen and the remembered scent of lavender and yeast.
Our big table was gone. Everything was gone. All changed. Modernised beyond repair.
I didn’t venture on the attics stair.
That would have been too much for even me to bear.
Too dark. Too old. Too empty.
No laughter echoed anywhere. Only in my memory.
Old songs. Piano keys. The paintings missing from the hall.
I thought 0f Rumpelstiltskin and naive Goldilocks.
Your versions were so good. Funny and irreverent.
Clouds still passed the window where you told those tales.
The trees still moved in the wind, their branches bouncing up and down.
My life has wandered on. I don’t have the money to buy a house like this.
I sometimes wonder if I might return here on my last breath.
Today I was an intruder for a while.
I left through the side door beside the servants’ stairs.
No-one saw me. No-one cares.
I won’t go again there,
except at night, in dreams.
They
in between night and sunrise
in between my right hand and my right
in between my dreaming and my waking
in between lost thoughts
and the next thought I may have
in between the ticking of the clocks
they move between the stairs
between the floorboards
between closed doors and ceiling cracks
between the shadows windows cast
until they become reality at last
On Wires (ghazal)
there are always birds on the telegraph wires
today i saw thirteen on the wires
the number gave me pause for thought
our fortune hangs on silver wires
life seems to come from the choices we make
but we swing like puppets on wires
we call our friends to discuss and debate
endless words are buzzing through wires
to try and untangle the troubles we face
we struggle to loosen the binding wires
you think we’re all alone in this world
but we’re all connected by wires
the birds in the evening fly away
moonlight shines on the wires
Upstart Crow
By the Avon, there was one,
always known as Stratford son,
who summed the world with liquid tongue.
Wisdom spilled and warmth of wit
keep his words forever young.
The paths he walked today are thronged
by wandering tourists, curious still,
about the story of our Will.
Above his grave,
pointing upward to the sky,
the shadows on the ancient spire
are swept by sunlight after clouds.
I said a prayer to please his soul
and left a sprig of rosemary.
By the river, under trees
through the graves, row on row,
I smiled to see an ‘upstart crow’
sauntering with dignity.
Hidden Daffodils
the day is dim and poorly lit,
clouds are gathering in the west,
the leaves are shivering on the trees,
my shoes are worn, my pockets thin,
there’s no money left again,
the forecast warns of storms and rain
the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils
the windows creak and draughts blow in
how bad can this old house become
there’s not much here to laugh about
this sort of joke is lost on me
the tap is dripping in the bath
the fire wont light, my cat is sad,
she’s curled up in a huddled ball
there’s nothing left to eat at all
the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils
counting blessings I find some,
there’s still a roof above my head,
i still live, i still breathe,
my head is full of memories,
i can think, i can dream,
and winter always turns to spring
the shadows underneath the trees are full of hidden daffodils
The Dreaming Path 