Park life

The truffle season begins..

 

 

a flare of green in the distance

from a high-viz jacket across the park

the smell of cattle, somehow sweet, carried like a vesper on

the air

and on the path a mushroom sprouts amongst the fallen leaves

all of these are clues to change

now that summer must relinquish its warmth

to the broad shoulders of another season

and we, the passengers, would do well

to witness the changing mood and prepare

for the light to cede it’s power, those lumens,

on shortening days when the sun’s grace is

merely a blown kiss and an ache that lingers

in sweet nothings

I take it in and hope to capture

some of it, some essence, to carry forward to the next time

and the next time

forever greedy for this gift of knowing

that I am small

scraps

scraps. pic

 

as we speak

we cling

like partners in a dance

to our very own

alphabet

drawn tight by desire

and we would if we could

make a frieze of the trick

that is language

 

the swollen air we launch

in speech

is full of gifts

and on reflection it is sad

that so many are returned unheard

in the transmission of loss

that only time

in its wise fractions

can attest

Shut eye

Shut eye. pic

 

I am not charmed by the mocking essence

in my dreams

how they tear the lids from the innocent viscosity

of my eyes

and wake me with words that appear to be squeezed

through an aperture of hope that was obviously closed down

aeons ago

is it shame?

is it grief?

that so much loss should pine in my waking head and

churn about and be perplexed by loss and hurt that will

it seems

forever dance in a sensual act of disentanglement

so I languish in this morbid state and hope

for a cessation of the wagging fingers that follow me

For Daf

For Daf

 

the clematis climbs in a hug

around the bushes and shrubs

and rises in a triumph around a conifer

like applause

A curtain call for this morning

while twin jet engines grind the air

on an ascending scale away from Heathrow

with a vow toward wherever it is they are promised

but down here, in our garden, I feel no resentment

not for the noise nor for those high flying dreams

because I am bound in this sumptuous scene

happy in May sunshine with cool air

on my naked skin,  newly cut grass glistening in the dew

and nothing much else to do

except perhaps to plant a kiss

on the cheek of a favoured friend

who has picked today, of all days

to celebrate

Murmurs

Murmurs. pic.

 

the squeezed ooze of blue ink on Basildon Bond

rendered with care from a mother to her daughter

and signing off with, ‘all my love’

this small parcel of observations

from an old lady in Southbourne

lays like an unexploded emotion

on a desk in the loft

a soft Dove of Peace long dead

still sending murmurs across the generations

her gentle devotion so evident

it outlasts the post

and leaves me as the keeper of hope

a guardian at the gate of future generations

and I must admit, I baulk

at the responsibility

Ever Yours,

mayday. mayday

mayday. pic for poem

 

snow is falling with stalled gravity

ponderous in white

a gift we’re told, from Russia

whose flakes stutter in our shocked air

inscrutable as they land

whispering in thick accents

and huddling in a carpet of nonchalant threats

on our lawns whose thoughts

have already turned to spring

as shocked daffodils blanch at the intrusion

dog walkers assemble to dissemble

that the biggest ‘dump’ will be on Thursday

and so we all return to base

 and wait

for everything we ever said

to come true

Destroyevski

Destroyevski. pic

 

It is all as it ever was

despite the incremental improvements

the sense of loss persists as though now

has been appropriated

and I sit in the circle of loss

whatever that is

and fret at the perimeter of sense

though really all meaning has been dis-emvowelled

leaving me with the parched bones

inexpertly sifting for meaning

and trying to divine a process

in this continuum of doubt

that the believer in me might adopt

in favour of the heretic who dances on the fringes

alluring in weak moments

Is this conscience?

Or fear that I may drown in self pity

at the lock-gates of my heart

turning the waters into a whine.