bells ring out, fireworks blaze
bless the old, light up the new
bring the New Year in
Poetry
Beyond the Loss
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
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
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
Kiss
two hearts meet on lips
tender, deeper, lingering there
in a goodnight kiss
Boxing Day
a cold empty box
wrapped in silver foiled paper
left outside in snow
Christmas
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
Star of Wonder
see the shining star atop the tree
a star in every house and street
a mirror of the celestial map
a tribute to the stars above
shining out where pavements glitter
sparkling in the frosted air
beaming out from lighted doors
greeting every passer by
a star in every window, every home
a light that gives a thanks complete
a light of joy and silvered wonder
welcoming families home with love
this bright star so high above
a glorious guiding light
not intended for one night
but held aloft a life time long
The Soul is King
As large as the universe,
as small as our individual hearts,
joined as one,
manifest in many parts,
the blood of every woman and man
rises in the trees sap
and on the birds wing,
held in the throne of water and air
we live and die,
the flames of a fire.
The Soul is King.
We in our tiny lives,
brush against each other in passing.
I know my brothers and sisters
by their smiles,
by the light that shines in their eyes
and their glances,
by the stories they pause to tell when we meet.
There is an older wisdom
that stir in our dreams,
unnameable,
unbreakable,
that which binds us,
passed as a torch,
hand to hand,
written in stars
and the shape of the land,
the land where the Soul is King.
Seeking the Nectar
the seed is small
curled up and tight
and now, given water,
it bursts through to light
the most beautiful of flowers
i inhale it’s gentle blossom
and worship its beauty for hours
each leaf, each petal, each pattern
the way the colour gradually changes
from the centre to the edge
every aspect as nature arranges
in intricate and elegant design
the unfolding petals curve outward
as it opens and captures the light
or closes again in shadow
a butterfly resting from flight
see how the stamen grows upward
from the nectar that stirs at the heart
i want to cup these petals so gently,
not crush them or thrust them apart,
taste the dew from the leaves
seeking the nectar and drinking
i want to dive into the pool,
to the source of the mystical scent
no thought in my head, not thinking
diving, swimming, sinking
breathing,
gasping,
drowning
The Dreaming Path 