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.
it’s a quiet early morning in springtime
rooftops arise from a gentle grey mist
the dawn streets are in silence and empty
and all in the drowsy town are asleep
it’s then i go out, in to the garden
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace, alone with the trees
it’s a quiet time of day in the summer
when the dusk starts to fade slowly away
the sun sinks behind the far distant hill
and the birds in their nests lower their songs
with an occasional voice they settle
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace, my mind flies away
it’s a quiet autumn day by the river,
a mirror, shining, reflecting the sky,
where white swans silently glide by in dreams
and the willows bow, heavy-headed,
a soft breeze makes the calm water shiver
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace, lost in the beauty
it’s a quiet winters day at the fireside
coals caverns burn in a cast iron grate
casting shadow as flames leap and fade
imagination wanders in landscapes
the world outside grows forgotten and dark
it is then that my heart, sighing, grows still
in peace at the end of the day
Our lives are full of disposable objects;
things we are given, things we buy.
From our birth to our death
we are magpies hording trinkets.
When we die they’ll be scattered
Others will decide
which ones mattered
to their own memories
or settle for intrinsic worth.
Some objects hold nothing,
others are full of feelings, stories,
warmth that leaves a long imprint
to be felt by some perceptive stranger
in a junk shop pile of the forgotten
the lost, the unwanted, undefined
the bowl with the flying swans,
their necks wrapped around each other,
was a gift from a lover
the stick with the broken handle
that once held a whistle
all that’s left of a father now
the stone from a beach. the gift of a child.
whose legs were still unsteady
faded petals and feathers in a box
the teddy with a skin worn thin by cuddles
the decorative key that fits no locks
a golden ring, an angel fish,
bracelets, baubles of no value,
a locket with a folded wish,
old and faded, hid behind a photograph
where no-one now will ever find it
or understand it if they did
a tarot pack, with one card missing,
because the Fool is lost and gone
every traveller journeys on
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
falling from a mountain spring
pouring down the waterfalls
rushing over rock
drumming through the hollows
babbling to the sheep
flowing through the valley
reflecting summer skies
chasing the kingfisher
toward the evening light
hiding here and there
vanished underground
passing through the city
collecting plastic bags
running in the dark
racing through the sluice gates
seeping through the cracks
leaping down the weir
escaping through the park
loitering with ducks
lapped against the bridges
dipped with fishing rods
passing through the village
dithering with frogs
winding through the meadows
dallying with swans
gliding under willows
seeking quiet shade
stroking the salmon
lazed in sunlit pools
growing ever wider
entering the estuary
taken by the tide
i see the river rise
rise and rise again
sustaining every life
lifted by the sun
it reaches to the sky
flies above the mountains
flooding back in rain
pouring down the waterfalls
rushing over rock
a mirror reflecting a bridge
blue span across a calm pool
with a foaming drop to the other side
where swans drift in gentle spray
lazily begging food
i lean over and watch them
warm sun beating down on my back
so peaceful here in summer
when the floods come in winter
this is another place
the water rises and roars
the river booms
vibrating the beams
close to my feet
debris in swirling bundles
crashes into the bridge
a whole tree lodged on the edge
in muddied, tumultuous foam
the banks of the river burst
threatening houses
and making a lake of the park
where the swans glide idly in pools
they are undisturbed
while my heart pounds
to the booming beat of the bridge
The Dreaming Path 