transformed by strong waves
cragged rock is smoothed to round stone
grit becomes pure pearl
Poetry
Lost in the Witchwood
the wood is dark with threatening trees
every time i look they are closer
though i never see them moving
i have been trying to find the path now
for a long lonely week or longer
i lost count of all time and direction
if the breadcrumbs we dropped ever existed
they are not to be found any where now
eaten by hungry birds for survival
does the witch of the wood really exist
she may have been killed long long ago
or is her house in the next clearing
is the cage baited with sweet delights
is the clang of the trap waiting ready
are her fires well stoked for the roasting
in the dark i stumble over ancient roots
twigs snatch at my hair like gnarled fingers
in darkness there is only despair
The Horse so fine
Riding in from the fields of scented heather
Leaving the hills of our home behind
We entered into the city on a horse so fine.
All decked out in embroidered leather
His deep chestnut skin like satin gleamed,
His mane was the gold of a polished crown,
A white diamond shone on his brow.
Wonder of wonders, this horse, and the maid
With the sparkling eyes, were mine.
The rings on his bridle jingled
In harmony with her sweet ankle bells
As he sidled, side-stepped, pranced.
His ears flicked and turned to every sound.
The curve of his neck showed pent up power.
Who would not admire such a horse
As he insolently passed them by?
He circled and danced, lord of the ground,
An enchantment to hold every eye,
A part of the seeds of our undoing.
Such seeds there were aplenty then,
One was surely jealousy.
How could I know we rode him to our ruin.
What else did they begrudge me
While I sang the songs of my homeland,
The land I loved so well.
This city was never ours for the taking,
The world was ne’er so good to our kind
Though we were royally welcomed there.
Youth is innocent, trusting, blind.
His eyes were wild and wide,
His tail held high, a flag of joyous defiance.
His bridle caught the sun.
He tossed his head to show his fire.
His hooves rang out on the cobblestones
The horse and I moved as one
As I danced him round the town
The Music Room
two notes echo still
near the piano
they hover
middle C, B flat
a warm scent
jasmine and almonds
hangs in the air
footsteps
softly retreating
I remember that
whenever I think
of the music room
the passageway
door to the garden
open a crack
the window
looks out to the sea
where the tides
roll out and back
washed over grey
to the distant blue
Guest Post – In Praise of Survival, by an Unviable Man
I am re-blogging this just because I like it – plus I too have seen this and, having seen that it is possible, is a source of strength and reassurance that brings optimism
On the Wane
1.
here in a bubble of moonlight
no strong winds can blow me
i sit and watch the world go by
floating, bound, unfeeling
what is this spell that holds me
enclosed and isolated
surrounded by air and light
contained in silence
i try to reach out, the bubble stretches.
untouched yet never defeated
i look out, but no-one comes near
i long to feel earth solid beneath my feet
this curse is a fleeting moment
in the waning i am winnowed
all things pass and change and pass
the moon will wax again at last
2,
paths keep crossing for their own reasons
the twirl of the world, the switch of the season
cycles coming, growing, going
we turn to each other familiar faces
lit by moonlight, hidden by shadows
the stranger you meet who holds up a light
comes in the dusk and leaves in the night
3.
the moment the moon begins to wane
all the old predators come back again
snarling and circling and snapping their jaws
prowling around me, sniffing the air
they smell my defeat before its begun
should i offer my throat and be done
is there a final release in their teeth
no sanctuary, no solace, no welcoming peace
so far from the fire, the torch and the hearth
so many riddles i can never answer
all my answers misunderstood
no star to guide me, lost in the wood
bound to a tree, yet i break free
when the dark hour strikes
no ritual sacrifice
there is music, sunlight, life
i only sink down to rise again
Girl in a Garden # 1
the girl runs from house to garden
from garden to house and back again
thinking only of running
thinking only of the garden and the house
this house, this garden
the breeze and the sunlight pooled on the grass
and the swaying of the poplar trees
she has no memory of any other place
or time
the delusions of the world unravelled
unspun they slipped away
this world complete enough
Ghost
This house has been kept for ghosts.
They live here now, dimly present, unheard.
She thinks she is preserving her childhood
by keeping their furniture, the curtains,
everything just as it was.
She holds up the screen for their shadows
to flicker against, with love.
These ghosts are more than memory.
I almost saw them once or twice
when time slipped sideways, ajar.
I enter the room and feel them,
feel the warmth on the arm of a chair
where his hand leaned just a moment ago.
I know he just left by the opposite door.
There is a slight disturbance in the air
as real as the solid oak table by the window
and the light on the polished floor.
It is winter now.
The house would be cold and damp without them,
though they hang in a fine sea mist by the fire.
At night he climbs the stair ahead of me.
They were always ahead of me, here
long before I came.
We don’t intrude. We live side by side.
When I am gone it will still be so.
I turn out the light and make my way to bed
in the dark
knowing they did the same.
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 divine expression
the balanced harmony of minds
and all the love i truly feel
A Welsh Voice
The mists, the mountains, cloud topped giants,
houses hung beneath the roads,
the mysteries of Cader Idris,
the bearded lake, Arthur’s stone,
a throne beside the glassy water
hollowed rock o’er grown with moss,
the leap of silvered salmon in the river,
the sheep, the lanes, the wayside markers
in the wall of wild flowers blooming,
by granite seat of ancient Bards,
where people gathered
hearing story roll from lips and memory.
All these things we saw together,
wandering in the wilderness of Wales
with my father, as a child.
The village streets where women gossiped,
the cobblestones and chimney pots
enchanted drifts of wood-smoked air
the clanging chime of book shop bell
as my father lead me to a gloomy room
walled with shelves.
Reaching up above my head
he handed me Dylan Thomas
a poet he had never read.
In bed that night a door swung open
with all the chimes of stream and meadow
louder than the bookshop bell
ringing out in word and image
words delicious in my mouth
the sounds, the shapes, the sensual pleasures
wrapped in beauty, thoughts profound,
laughter, love, the lowing cattle
driven home at eventide.
The orchards and the apple trees,
the night above that shines with stars.
The chapel choirs sang out across the valleys
voices raised in harmony and hymn,
the moaning echoes of the wind in grass
the sighing singing of the sea,
short lives lived
parading slowly to the grave.
The Dreaming Path 