the clouded sunlight through the trees
casts shadows, stilled, across the lake
the silvered white of floating swans
shines out against the gathered gloom
eyes that shed slow tears recover
with beauty there, to rest upon
Poetry
Bank Holiday Blues
Bank Holiday gloom seeps into the room
from a flat sky, full of grey light,
pressed to the glass of the window
three days of no brightness
changes the view
this hollow whiteness
deadens the day
the sounds become softer
the memories harder
of all that is vanished away
When I am Old (revised)
Dedicated to my Mother ~
when i am old i wont do anything
but think
and run my life back and forward
in my mind
in translucent back-lit visions
the trek to the kitchen and back
a long journey
re-gaining at last the armchair
i sleep
to dream dreams of the long gone
i will develop a liking for jelly and custard
milk pudding
soup from a can and cheese with jam
cream cakes
and forget what i meant to have for breakfast
the taps will drip, the fire will burn cold
windows rattle
and the mice will move in unafraid
as company
and eat the fabrics to tatters
I will confuse the books i have read
with memories
i will see the ghosts of my family
standing by
and wonder if they wait for me in the night
I wont care about any of this
watching light
watching shadows move across the walls
distant birds
i will ignore all bad news and live in imagination
drifting back to childhood again
so clear
with all my family gathered around
the dead ones
now is just a space between sleeping and waking
Circle Declaration
The wrong words have been spoken.
They summon up famine,
injustice and grief.
The line is narrow and doesn’t turn back.
Progress and riches,
shot like an arrow,
Power and greed pull back the bow.
I hear it groan, as it strains and creaks.
The higher it flies the further it falls.
The circle is endless,
The earth is all-knowing,
Liquid with sunlight
Holy and starbright
A mystery sings, at the heart of it all.
The movement is one of coming and going,
Eternally growing,
naturally flowing.
For wisdom and balance we send out the call.
Farewell to Summer
we look to the future of warm winter fires
farewell to sweet summer, before long to return
the hedgerows are full of the fruits of the sun
we sowed in good trust and reap what we earn
John Barleycorn, he must die once again
we harvest the grain for the threshing floor
returning the first gifts to bless the land
it is the time to give thanks for our winter store
The Wake of Summer
What kind of sacrifice is this i find
but the corpse of a fledgling bird
suspended amidst the Blackberry thorns
at the end of Summer days,
redolent of the well-known tale
of the Nightingale and the Rose ,
with no explanation but thoughtless fate,
the fate that finally finds us all,
in whichever way it falls
Geometry
if i could subtract
i would remove
all the block and ballast
of all the past relationships
and every word i said that hurt
there would be no divisions
all good things would multiply
i would add love to every word i said
to make the truth sing clear
i am not a mathematician
my sums don’t all add up
i mumble through the algebra
and stumble through equations
to show you all i really mean
i’d need geometry
that pure divine expression
of balanced harmony
Broken Wings
Romantic love is a fragile thing;
joyous, beguiling, appealingly sweet.
At the first fearful thought it flies away
a trembling bird on a shattered wing.
Frightened away by too much enquiring,
too many questions, best left unasked,
too honestly answered, unwisely perhaps.
In the garden, where once was a breeze
that gently seduced and played with your hair
there now comes a storm that bows down the trees
tugs at the branches and strips all the leaves.
I heard the twigs snapping in two.
We lash the trunk to a stake for the strength.
We discover how shallow the roots are sunk.
Love grows stronger or love lies wounded.
There is no denying the truth.
The lessons of Cupid and Psyche
are as old as the well worn challenging hills.
We wander and wonder
and never will learn not to ask.
I hand you healing as best I can
to conjure the summers return.
A simple concoction of words could suffice.
You didn’t hear me.
You didn’t heed them.
You heard only bad weather news.
Now we don’t talk about love any more.
We lost all our sense of the deeper feeling.
Now the door to my heart is sealed
against storms, real, imagined or fleeting,
by your, oh so kindly said, gentle words:
‘I will always love you, truly, I mean it.
I will always love you my darling one,’
and then, oh, so revealing,
resounding throughout every possible meaning,
that final, heart wrenching
‘But…………’
when i was small
when i was small and nothing was named
triangles rounded, appealing yet strange,
pink pastel , green, powder blue, cream,
on a chain of balls hung by my hand
in the space now named kitchen, mundane,
a wondrous light gleamed on the taps
a window shaped shadow shone on the wall
sunspots and dazzle in dust motes that danced
the magical, mystical weave of the world
daydreams later, music, rhythms and words,
hidden companions jumped out of books
words that told astonishing thing, they flew
black wings, deep blue, a momentary flash,
crystalline visions, a jewel shone in a beak,
a message from angels that sheltered the bed.
morning left on the walk to the school
to the room of the witch, her ice cold eyes
held nightmares, inaccessible stars,
barred windows where birds sang outside
a world full of things not understood
diving inward, escaping
curled up tight in a ball
eternally quiet
eternally small
Shooting Stars
The lamps shine down from windows high above,
Burning moths, white wings singe against the light.
Old roses hang against the well worn walls
Amongst the darker tangle of the leaves,
Their blossoms gleaming as each petal falls,
While lovers sleep entranced in tender dreams,
Turning now and then throughout the long night,
Entwined and locked together by their limbs.
I stand below here, pierced and polarised.
The galaxies are singing psalms and hymns.
Seeing, I lose all sense of who I am.
I see a sky that’s full of shooting stars.
No wish I make can change our mortal fate.
It’s beautiful, it’s passing and it’s late.
The Dreaming Path 