Avon

Lazy Warwickshire Day

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

away from the town

a short walk away

nothing to hear

but the hum of the bees

deep in the foxgloves

bending their stems

exploring their throats

close by the reeds

nothing to hear

but ripples

soft lapping

and the splash of a ducks wing

taking a dive

nothing to hear but the warbling note

of the bright eyed blackbird

stalking the worms

and sometimes a cuckoo

hid in the trees

nothing to see

but the dazzling gleam

of sunlight on water

blinding your eyes

and the bright flamed robin

where he stands in his rags

and the white glare of light

that falls on the swans back

as he glides, slow, serene,

from the deep shade of willows

and the light that flutters and winks

with the breeze

through the trembling leaves

nothing to see but green rolling hills

vanish to distance

a shimmering haze

it’s hot today on the banks of the Avon

it’s one of those lazy Warwickshire days

 

 

 

Footnote

Robin in Rags = Ragged Robin, a wild flower

Sweet Avon

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Under green summer willows my family walked,

Avoiding the shadows of serious talk.

As a child, without care, I ran on ahead,

Chasing the sunlight, alarming the swans,

Watching the ripples that spread from the banks,

I took all for granted, when time was my friend.

Now, by the Avon, I wander alone.

Clear in the knowledge that everything ends.

Now I find comfort in rivers and ghosts.

The Enigma of Anne

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

While plague after plague swept through the city
Winnowing lives, like corn, without pity,
The gallows stood close, the axe was not dulled,
While I, by the peace of Avon was lulled.
The play is the thing, all life is a play,
Three days and nights on horse-back away.
All journeys end in true lovers greeting.
Where the bee sucks our pleasures were fleeting,
Violets, eglantine, sweet summer wine,
Came with their season and then he was mine.
Spring time is gone, winter’s cold, he is dead.
I dream in the depths of our second best bed.

Seasons keep turning, and little remains
but wise words from sweet Will, who won’t come again.

 

The Minstrel

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Peering through a mist

parting a veil, dusty webs,

staring back at fate.

I see the entrance vividly,

the exit all too clear

 

He rode into London in a cavalcade

his lady seated before him, bedazzled by all they saw

exchanging glances with his boisterous brothers

they rode in a merry troupe, loud laughter and youth

lute and tabor, bells and fine embroidery.

They roamed the streets at night

joyful pups in a rainbow of rags and finery

mocking wealth they cocked a snoop at death.

They attracted wide attention.

 

red ribbons and green

her hair swings in the sunlight

her eyes, her arms, life

 

Ah! but to stay in the streets and courtyards would have been far wiser.

What does youth know, exuberant, thoughtless, unwitting.

Attention a flattery, alluring.

Beckoned through wider and higher doors

they entered in. Gardens of delight, sweet scents and song

gentle harmless beauty, so it seemed to him.

A peace fell upon him there, he dreamed in poetry.

Darkness approached. The shadow of a cloud on the grass as it crosses that summers sun.

 

lavender lady

seats herself amongst roses

charming, so disarming

 

Requests made, favours granted ,

twisted meanings, things not understood,

so many whispers in quiet corridors,

the web of intrigue draws tighter,

he spoke the wrong words too lightly

spilling his thoughts into treacherous ears.

This tale reveals all that was feared.

The shadow of the Tower looms closer.

He longs to leave this city, they will flee at night,

run to the countryside

where the hills are wide and sweeping,

where the willows lean gently

over the Avon weeping.

All too late.

He prays she got away.

 

dark walls draw inward

music screams loud in the silence

of la oubliette

 

this is not his final end, the world is too unkind

better to be forgotten than to suffer such a fate

still unsatisfied they dragged him out

it turns and troubles my stomach now

to watch the rest of this

the pain became too great and ceased, he rose

floating high above himself, looking down on horror

seeing things no-one should see

and my pen grows silent, as he fades away in light

 

red roses spread out

he flies above the woodlands

butterflies of light