Lazy Warwickshire Day

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

Peaceful

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

Thanks for Poetry

thanks for the light on the walls and the taps

that light that shone through the kitchen window

when i was small and nothing was named

 

thanks for the lazy cat sleeping in sunshine

the cat i cared for as mine for a time

she gave me my first gentle knowledge of death

 

thanks to the brother dead before i was born

who taught me all a brother could be

a fantasy figure of unbroken virtues, Galahad vanished

 

thanks for daffodils that blazed in the garden,

giant hollyhocks, blood peonies, roses,

the gnarled apple tree branches and pears

 

thanks for the nursery school teacher

who tortured my mornings, her ice cold eyes

made me throw up at the approach to her door

 

thanks for the blackbird, the song-thrush, the night,

daisy chains, faery rings, the jackdaw in flight

the souls and spirits that danced in the garden

 

thanks for Arthur’s round table, Robins arrows,

my imaginary horse, all my hidden companions

who jumped out of old dusty leather-bound books

 

thanks for the love that i found here and there

and the help from unexpected places,

strangers, wise friends and wanderers all

 

and thanks for that mighty punch on the jaw

the blow that almost left me deaf in one ear

driving me inward to find myself in escaping

 

thanks for clouds, forests, mountains that rumble,

dogs that tumble in grass, running horses,

the endless crash of giant waves on the shore

 

ravens, seagulls, all things that fly,

the moments i saw true love shine in eyes,

the curve of a lip at the start of a smile

 

tangled limbs, sleeping faces, blessings,

grace, beauty, rivers that rush over stones,

my search for Excalibur out on the moors

 

daydreams, music, rhythms and words,

the strength of an oak, the willow that bends,

the magical, mystical weave of the world

 

i give thanks for will power, imagination and hope,

for knowing how to cope and survive

most of all i give thanks for being alive

 

Old Man Willow

I am Old Man Willow
I nurture bees
I am called The Honey Tree
I am loved by Thrush and Hawk
The Cat and Hare confide in me
I shelter Mistletoe and Primrose
Primrose juice inspires the Bard
I gave dreams to Orpheus
I am of the Sacred Grove
Honoured in the Wisdom Old
To talk to me, it is not hard.
I am home to resting Cranes
Who like to build their nests nearby
Together we will bring good fortune
And many stories we enfold.
I protect the rivers banks
I am first and last in leaf.
Rest by me
Come give me thanks
I soothe all grief
Lay beneath me
Watch the shadows
And the flickering of Sun
Filter through my sighing branches
I am Old Man Willow
You need have no fear of me
If you walk gently, kindly, in the wood
And damage not any tree

Under the Willows

When we were young and dreaming

we hired a boat, floated beneath the bridges

made of worn and ancient stone

we rowed stronger and further than anyone else

to be alone on the tranquil river

 

We pulled in and laid back beneath willows

toes touching, smiling, reading

while the afternoon drifted downstream

dazzling sparks and flashes on ripples

sunlight filtering green through the leaves

 

We never thought to look deeper

into the darker shadows

to the tangle of weeds beneath us

but we rowed against the current

to make our way home in the evening

 

We were young and we were dreaming.