bluebells

Nostalgia

/ A. Gouedard / 3 Comments

I remember the smell of bran mash and horses,
steam rising in winter sun
the creaking of leather out in the yard,
saddles and straps, the welcoming whinny,
the course hair of manes caught in the brush
the sharp hollow ring of shod hooves on stone
echoing round the stables
the first time a horse stood on my foot
leaning shoulder to shoulder and pushing
feeling the strength of sinew
and above all the stable doors
the names of old horses, long gone

I remember the bluebells
blueness in scented shadows
fallen branches and fungi
the huge tree, blown down in the winter,
still full of life,
and the rooks crying above
to the echoing shouts of young children
we play hide and seek amongst the trees
until someone falls over
and it’s time to get them to bed
the days are still shorter than summer

I remember in summer, sweet jasmin,
the buzz of the bees in the hedgerows,
the heat of the day, a sizzler
the smell of sun warmed railway tracks
where the weeds grew up through the sleepers
the shimmer ahead where the sun met illusion
my sandal strap broken, mended with string,
when we sat on the banks
while the dogs raced away
to the river

I remember lovers
Autumn is gold with nostalgia
summer is over
it’s time for fires
fires on the beach
fires in the house
the chill air makes us snuggle
there is no need to go out in the evening
time to find last years old jerseys
and let them embrace us again

Springs Fanfare

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

when spring returns her dress is yellow

bluebell garlands round her ankles

snowdrops scattered in her hair

where she walks the buds burst forth

daffodils her orchestra

could any maiden be more fair?

the sky is blue, the breeze is gentle

all is fresh and new again

birdsong fills the sweet soft air

life renews in endless cycle

gone the bitter cold and darkness

away, away with winter care

soon the meadow banks will fill

with the flowers of warmer days

i will rest, for dreaming, there

 

Coton Manor Bluebell Wood Northamptonshire

 

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Nanswhyden

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

The white gate stands, closed,

at the top of the grey winding road.

The broad green slopes of the pasture

lead down to the shining lake,

a silvered mirror to sunlight.

 

At first dawn the vale fills with mist.

A line of treetops, drawn on white,

with a tender brush, nothing more.

All is hidden. Nothing exists here now.

It waits to be born with the sun.

 

An ancient woodland sits in shadow,

deep at the edge of the valley,

where the cry of the circling kestrel

splits the air. He calls to his mate aloft.

The sound defines the distance.

 

On a hot summer day

the grey road burns and shimmers,

running past old stone walls and banks of wild flowers,

wilting, in afternoon heat.

My feet on the road raise fine dust.

 

Woven into these hills the grey road runs down

past ruined ivy clothed archways.

They stand alone in a field,

all that remains of a mansion,

a home, and people long gone.

 

Beyond, is the farmhouse,

built of timber and granite.

It sits as if rooted in earth

nested into a curve,

strong enough to withstand any storm.

 

In the farmyard the mud is baked hard.

The old sheep dog twitches one ear as I pass.

He knows me too well to rise. He is tired.

His thick coated son wags his tail at me.

He is always on guard.

 

I walk on past my own cottage door

into a grove of birch saplings,

mingled with older trees, cedar and oak.

In spring this place is flooded with vibrant blue,

the sharp, pungent scent of bluebells fills the air.

 

In this magical wood, at the far end,

I have often glimpsed the fair folk.

They don’t chase me away. I leave them in peace.

This is a place where two worlds cross.

The door is held open, and welcome.

 

Now I come to rest in the shade

on this burning bright summer day.

I lean my back against the moss clad old oak

and dream the rest of the day away,

long past this, and every other, evening.

 

The old standing stone, at the heart of the valley,

remains always cool to the touch.

At night when the stars are out, in moonlight,

the stone is encircled, embraced by a perfect bowl

of such beauty, it takes away my breath.