Notes from my Garden

Preface

Apart from a newborn child, what is more wonderful to contemplate than nature and the universe! This  collection of poems draws inspiration mainly but not exclusively, from things seen and experienced within a half hour's walk from my suburban home and especially from my own modest back garden. The longer poems date from my earliest efforts in 1970, to the present day; the 'haikuesque' poems have emerged since our visit to Japan in 2002 when my interest in this verse form was awakened.




blank screen before me

what words will emerge as

the sun rises high

rooted deep in this earth

ancient pull of the soil
loyalty of the plough

leaves losing their shine

tired of waving, ready

to return to England’s soil

autumn approaches

children’s voices lost

in the evening sky

this golden light

filling my autumn afternoon

looking up old friends

leaves are falling

soon the forest floor will

again be golden

autumn evening

the joy of silence falling

and of solitude

the falling rain is

                                                                                                                                                                        longing for your return and

recounting how I feel

flowering over

the wild rose displays its thorns

and a warning

bank of purple cloud

has pulled a linen sheet

across the sky

mellow sun

pushing the lonely cloud

towards evening

day or night

the ever-changing gallery

of the sky

sky-lantern bobs and weaves

looks for a safe place to land

before nightfall

leaves cascade like tears

bitter wind thrashes the trees

not what they deserve

such a strong wind

the voice of the oak tree

fills the sky

parents at war as

infants start to cry the

trees can only listen

scattered leaves

seeking a place to rest

the summer birds have flown

fresh morning stillness

the highway and I are awake

and the chinking blackbird

awake with the breeze

that warns the light-fingered sun

from stealing my dreams

deep the leaves of autumn

in grand-daughter’s garden

nourishing the soil

a strange new interest

in gardens of remembrance

age creeping up on me

westerly wind

the leaves scurry east

in confusion

snail moving house

to safety in the rhubarb patch

will he make it?

empty snail shell

perhaps he’s moved house

thrush on the fence looks away

frost tingles my face

warm sun on my neck as

the door closes behind me

hands thrust deep

feet stamping out a nipping frost

but I feel alive

weeks of grey sky

suddenly the meadow grass

floods with gold

after heavy rain

in bright and windy sky

even the sheep rinsed clean

thick cloud-carpets

dark and brooding, blown away

never seen sky so blue

a fleet of rain clouds

soaking all my senses

the fall of summer rain

at the dimming of the day

songbirds lock their songs away

in fear of the night

dog bark muffled

in plumes of woodsmoke

the red sun dies

his old shoes

still behind the kitchen door

spider has found a home

lonely night journey

beneath the guardian moon

inventing ghosts

moon-gazing

clouds offer respite

to my aching neck

sun has staged a light show

in the western sky a fleet

of storm clouds sails by

on a rising tide

sleek curves in the golden sand

silver birds decide to fly

 

 

 

 

 

scribbles of cirrus

drift across the sky urging

I continue my journey

all the houses lie

still and dark - now it’s just me

and the moon

a holy light as

the dawn comes creeping while

most of the world still sleeps

aqueous sun

searchlight through the fog

something lost in the trees?

fog deadens the night

suddenly without a sound

-     the stars

lying with you

two cupped spoons warm

this frosty night

song-thrush pecks a berry

only movement in brittle silence

-     till the cat

checking the thermometer

they say first snows

are due tonight

ash tree already naked

against the steel sky

entwined with stars

trudging heavy fields

‘say “hello Mister Scarecrow”’

said my dad

neighbourhood lights are out

now it’s just me and the street lamp

to drink in the night

leaves leap and fly

scurry before the lash of winter

that stings the trees

wild december wind

thrashing tv aerials

crying with the cold

crisp white dawn

night tracks cross the lawn

visitors we never see

frozen to the spot

in the icy grip of winter

yet the fear of falling

soft mellow sun

is trying to make up for

this freezing day

flickering flames

deciding with the shifting coals

what to do next

thermometer falling falling

leaves crack with my feet

shards of lost mosaic

visiting the grave

red roses, wind-blown

strew the frozen ground

a coiled spring

frantic clap of pigeon wing and

cat returns to his nap

 

new landscape pure and bright

in that silent moment

I fell in love with snow

snow settling deep

I see it falling

through a gap in the curtains

snow on snow

tracks of my past

preserved in ice

no-one about                                                                                                                                                                     

doodling in the snow

just being creative

no-one around

deep letters in the snow

pissing about

hard blue day

blackbird risks his beak

on the frozen ground

frozen to my washing line

a flock of hungry birds

cat twitches his tail

a break in the clouds

colourful pegs like parrots

perch on my washing line

a shower threat

rushed to fetch the washing in

then it sneaked away

the winter sun

silenced by my sparkling garden

listens for a bird

misaimed pebble hit the fence

strange cat leaped

and was gone

solitary bird

sings to the new-born day

to share its warmth

raindrops tap the window sill

saying look

here comes the sun

feeling for the worm

blackbird stabs and flies -

he’s got what he came for

joy of early spring

birdsong returns to the woods

things as they should be

every spring

thinking of the strawberries

are they thinking of me?

too rough the April wind

blasts the wild cherry, carpet

of pink destruction

invisible plane

hums across the sky

then is gone

 

eyes closed, listen - the

conversations of the birds

sunrise on my face

rising with the lazy sun

trees dapple my garden

woodpigeon calls me names

round the sun-lit lawn

he is seeing off the bad guys

new superhero

spring cleaning

I brush dead leaves from my path

playful wind blows them back

dawn chorus

such an outpouring of song

as only England knows

birdsong so shrill

in the woods once more

the joy of spring

midnight mauling cats

today belongs forever

to the past

children’s voices

sticklebacks beware nets are

lying empty on the bank

rabbit skin and bone

remains of a meal

cradled in the heather

dandelion bristles

defiance in the face of

of the harvester’ blade

crow stalks my garden

cat too chillaxed to bother

but the magpies defer

gnats swarm and spiral

in the brightness and the breeze

always in the same space

an evening painting

by morning my porch shows the

pawprints of a cat

cat stretched on the slabs

disregards ultra-violet

slow roasts in the sun

the wide jug of sky

pours soft cream of morning sun

that dapples my lawn

fig tree struggles

to bear its exotic fruit

this cool cool summer

a plane of pearly silver

with all the time in the world

flying for the moon

summer rain

the garden a calm sea

of swelling green

cool cool summer

relishing every moment

to catch the sun

 

message reads

cat in the strawberry patch -

don’t eat the fruit

magpie called

dropped the fruit he’d just stolen

caught red-beaked

raspberries on the cane

try to catch them early

before the birds

through the window

through the curtain of rain lies

the rest of the  world

my  old wooden fence

where generations of woodlice

have nibbled their lives

ripples of applause

across sweet summer grass

cricket in full swing

garden party

sharing music into the night

with the neighbourhood

rough sandstone makes

a tolerable wall but

litchens make it perfect

figs on the tree are

small and ripe at last but

just beyond my reach

my lone apple tree

suddenly stripped and fruitless

what a storm last night!

walking dogs in the rain

cold wet coats don’t matter

they’re old friends

so many rainy days
gulls afloat on the sports field

feeling at home

 seagulls floating

the goal posts - no defence

‘gainst the heavy rain

strange bird song -

a visitor to my garden?

too shy to reveal itself

gleaming summer people

pavillioned in splendour with

black country brass

star gazing together

the wine tastes good but

holiday’s over

gratefully sipped at dawn

moon brings the gift of dew to

the undeserving sun

sycamore keys twirl

in silence towards their end

                                                                                                                                                                                        or their beginning

on my patio

quiet of the morning sun

listening to the birds

 

afternoon sun slips

behind the chestnut tree -

first shiver of autumn

 

closing my eyes

wind buffets my cheeks and hood

-     I hear the call

new life returning

summer is icumen in

the song will never end

wind sings the same note

shredded by wires and aerials

yearning attention

so calm, so bright

the song of spring’s morning light

bursting into life

long abandoned shrine

damp wood and mouldering leaves

returning to the soil

rising sun sparkles

a flotilla of dandelion

clock flowers remind me

power cycling

through the chill mists of dawn

cold nose – warm thighs

frozen to the core

ice flowing on the river

and through my veins

wobbly barrow

teetering and overloaded

complaining loudly

 

 

 

 

AH! SUMMER .......

 

I remember it well.

Week on week bulging skies tore down;

Bright colours retreated to familiar territory

In the wardrobe.

Damp courses were tested,

Angry clouds spat volumes at the windows

And bullying westerlies ruffled the slates.

 

 ‘But it’s not cold’ we told each other

 From within three layers, clutching at reeds;

But as river levels rose we found ourselves

Out of our depth - 54 degrees north,

15 degrees warm and wet.

 

Only the weather girl shone through 

Smiling us on towards autumn . . . .

And the hint of more of the same, only colder.

 

. . . . AUTUMN

 

And the trees are breaking free –

They’ve had enough,

Shedding their leafy baggage as if to go;

Tired of the narrow drab spectrum of summer,

Forced to wear shades loyal to a fickle sun.

The trees are breaking free,

Painting the world in their autumn collection,

Entertaining us their own way.

 

 

 

AUTUMN SUN

 

How glorious the evening sun

Reaching through cold space

Pouring its gold upon the grass,

Releasing a warmth that

Seemed forever banished

From my dark room where

All I could hope for were

Blessings from an angry sky.

 

 

 

THE SHEPHERD OF SPARKS

 

Ever watchful for a weather change,

Signs of a storm fermenting out at sea,

Troubled atmospherics 

Spawning cold grey banks of cloud

Threatening squalls and flurries.

 

Negative charges hopefully defused

Chased by the breeze of experience

Repelled by the barbs of consequence,

And all to safeguard the flock

Kindle the sparks that one day

May brighten a future.

 

 

 

ASH TREE

 

A  November like any other,

The weather girl said -

Buffeted by a flock of leaves discarded

By moaning trees undressing

For their winter bed.

 

Soon we’ll be defrosting the car

Rasping the windscreen 

Turning up the heat

Cursing the black ice.

 

But snowdrop and crocus

Could show any time now -

Confused spring showing she

Has not forgotten how

But laments the passing

Of every bud that fails to swell ;

 

The ash, another tree we may say

One day we knew and loved so well.




 

PLANNING FOR THE SUMMER

 

That time of year’s come round again

Adverts on TV for a fortnight in Spain -

Just two hours away on a budget flight

To freedom from our dismal plight

Of watching indoors our summer rain

Pour down our sodding drain.

 

 

WILD FRUIT

(acknowledgement to Ronald Blythe’s ‘Akenfield’)

 

I am the orchard man

Twisting and turning the ripe fruit

Softly falling fresh-skinned and shining -

Never a cut nor bruise.

 

First planted apple pips when a nipper

On the sunny southern banks

Below the hedgerow and

Twelve when I first worked the fruit -

Got my shilling a week – that was the main thing;

And as I grew so did my money -

Bought myself a bike.

 

Summer’s best - you get the women

Come up from the town - give you a look ,

Biking up daily through the picking season.

 

When I was sixteen one of these old girls comes up to me,

‘Let me see your pump’ says she. I didn’t answer.

The other girls laughed with their rosy cheeks and skirts.

‘I’d like to borrow your pump’ says she, all smiles.

‘I did not bring it with me’, I reply.

She laughs along and walks away to join her friends.

 

Next day she sees me mending fences,

Comes straight to me full of her smiles

And puts her full moist lips all over my face between her hands

Like she were going to eat me.

‘I got my pump today’, I says in muffled tones.

‘I know’ she smiles and

Pushes me down in the long grass.

 

I feel buttons popping and zips trembling;

‘The coast is clear’ she says, ‘Let’s go’.

I says ‘Brighton’s nearly twenty miles away and I got work to do.’

She laughs and comes down like a cartload of Bramleys.

I can’t see nothing but grass and flesh and

Her wild smiling eyes.

 

There was such a strength to her rocking,

Even better than free-wheeling downhill.

And I were thinking when we reached the bottom

‘Do this mean I’m now a man?’

‘Nowt wrong with your pump’ she laughs.

‘We can go ridin’ again tomorrow if you like’.

 

That were a summer and no mistake!

 

 

 

 

FLOWER

 

Someone has placed a flower in the Gents

A simple yellow flower, not big, not blousy

Just a single fragile stem in a jar

On the sill for all to see.

 

Doesn’t get much light, much air

Or attention - probably grow stronger

In a more salubrious location.

 

But someone thought enough to put it there

For all to notice,

And in spite of everything

It is a survivor – more, an asset,

At least for the moment,

Just being there, smiling

For everyone.

 

 

  

 

FEAR THE WIND

 

Times when blown off course

We re-orientate

Stiffen sinews,

Summon blood and

Tack into the wind

To discover the new in us,

Recognise forces ruinous,

Find a little piece of You in us.

 

And, though there be

No harbour light, we find

That piece that’s new to us

That little piece of You in us

That tells us to respect

to trust the earth  but

Not to fear the wind.

 

DANSE MACABRE

 

Two young oaks, hallowe’en dusk

Entwined in danse macabre beneath

The owl of moon and shredded cloud

Whipped to frenzy by a mad grey wind

To greet ghosts of trains that will never come.

 

 

 

NIGHTSCAPE

 

Somewhere slams an iron door.

Shutters fall - cut the last spark.

Walls urge you silently confess to the night

The turmoil within your cage.

 

Nightghasts lurk and swoop,

A flood of rats awaits the chance

Sucking on your inner light

Eyes frozen with the dread of sleep.

 

Then slowly hail the dawn

That in her glory lifts the shadows

From the shoulders of tormented hills

Parting mists reveal

Fresh hues and sounds of a new day.

 

So sink back into

The pillow of this landscape

And share with the artist your own

Sweet re-ordering of the world.

 

 

 

WEATHER-TIME

an eternity

 of swirls and eddies, highs and lows

                           that wax and wane,

                                        advance and retreat,                                   seasonal armies

                                               jostling and merging                                 and inwardly changing

                                                                                    in seamless process

                                                                                                   as old as the earth,

                                                                                                that links us all under timeless sky

                                                                             with the past,

                                                    with our past,

                  the beginning of life;

                                          for the weather, wherever,

                                                                              whatever,        flows with the ocean

                                                                                                                                just as the wind blows

                                                   just as the rising moon

balancing the system

and on life goes.


 

SNOWFLAKE

 

One in a million million          

And here you are with me,

A beauty all your own

That none but I will see;

Making no demands

On this snowy winter’s day -

Just here and now

To show me Wow

Before you melt away.

 

 

 

 

WITH THE RISING SUN

 

The garden slowly wakens.

Shivers of excitement

Ripple through the hedgerows-

Stem and leaf

Flower and fruit,

Caresses in the tingling air

That cradle warmth for the soil

And offer new light

For a sinner’s prayer.

 

 

 

 

NAIJA  MOMENT

 

Midday sun beats my neck

Recalling a naija moment:

Trekking home

Dust-clad and weary

Down Old Cemetry Road,

Through putrid plumes of rubbish fire

An acrid thirst raging from the hot tar,

Forehead beaten by the din of okadas’

Hot gritty belchings –

But Oh! The promise of that first

L   o   n   g

Gulp

Of cold beer!

 

 

 

 FOREST

 

My room, live as a forest glade,

Swayed beneath a hundred watt sun

That lit a green and mossy floor.

A waterfall trickled down the sink

On its way to the sea

And my unmade bed a home for heroes that

 

Furry animals hid beneath;

Parrots snatched exotic fruit

That dripped in leafy clusters

While creepy crawlies nested

In an undergrowth of socks and shirts

And the wardrobe was a bat-cave.

 

Every morning the sun switched on.

Air filled with sounds and odours of life -

The chants, the farts, the hoots and squawks –

Struggled  for rhythm but later, when it rained,

I heard only the spattered leaves chuckling

At the tickling, dripping raindrops.

 

Then one day before the sun could raise alarm

Two men burst in, masked and leather brown

A can of guilt and a matchbox

Full of excuses, soaked with pain and fear

And blazing desperate eyes

Burned my forest down.

 

 

 

 

GIVING A FIG

 

Years ago I planted a fig -

Never thought it would grow so big,

So handsome, so tall

Leaning against the garden wall -

Leaves so wide before summer starts

You could easily hide your private parts. 

 

 

GARDENING  CUB

 

‘Old Mrs Roberts lives on the corner –

Needs help with her garden –VOLUNTEERS - YOU TWO!’-

The curse of the early birds ensues,

Fed by Akela a worm we couldn’t refuse!

 

We ran round and ...a jungle we found,

Untouched since Eden’s dawn -

Briars and creepers, nettles and thorns,

Grasses as high as an elephant’s eye,

To be repelled with  hoes and shears

And a rake made of spears  -  multi-toothed assegai

Forged by Chaka himself.

 

After an hour we knocked to say

We’d return next week – no, nothing to pay -

To continue to fight the invasion of species  -

Not to mention the cans and the bottles and faeces.

 

I soldiered on each week – not a moan

On duty, on time, and alone

Hacking at vines, forging a track

Nettle-stung, bramble-scratched  aching back;

But ‘Never to count the cost’ we were told -

But like Livingstone – strong and bold

 

As decreed by wolf cub lore,

Though bible-bashed and bruised galore

Exploitation’s bitter root:

Unrecognised, unrecorded

Unmapped, unrewarded  -

And not a campaign medal or badge to show for it!

 

 

 

LOOKING UP

 

You look down on me from your window -

Think I am watching you

But I like to follow the planes

Flying with dreams 

High across the world

Straight for the stars.

 

I’m not watching you,

So reset your face - Look up too

And hope your dreams come true.

 

 

 

 

OH, SUMMER!

 

Today it’s summer in my garden -

No, not zero or below,

But 35 degrees or so -

Yes, Celsius - on my patio.

 

Been trying to read some works by Poe;

Can’t keep awake to read much, though.

Lawn needs a mow, the borders a hoe

But the going’s been slow at 35 degrees or so!

 

I’m out in the open, starting to sweat -

But I need all the vitamin D I can get.

Though I feel my eyes drooping, head nodding till ‘slap’ -

Spilt sodding coffee all over my lap!

 

Then the neighbours tune in to their radio

Sharing at volume their Status Quo.

I try to keep calm and go with the flow

But my B.P. is rising and my headache won’t go.

 

I ought to dry out –  the coffee and sweat

Before stains on my shirt are starting to set

But this summer, in my garden – p’raps the last I get

So I won’t go indoors – I’m done with it yet. 

 

  

SECRETS OF THE HEART

 

Swift and clear the river runs

A bubbling conversation

Where secret meanings of the heart swim like bream

But attracted to the surface

Are easily caught

So lose their gleam,

Perhaps their intrigue savoured best

As a glimmer in deep water

That can yet fulfil a dream.

 

 

 

PRISCILLA THE CATERPILLAR

 

Hello!

I'm the hungriest caterpillar.

I live on a leaf and my name is Priscilla;

If something looks tasty to eat

I must try it

But unless I stop soon

I'll be having to diet.

 

I just love nice cakes

Chockies or biscuits

But I put on more weight,

So I really can't risk it.

 

I went out for a meal

With some of my mates,

Ate absolutely everything

There was on the plate.

 

Then when I got back

To my little cocoon

I couldn't fit in –

There was simply no room!

 

But when I woke up,

Guess what? I had wings

Now I fly about looking

For wonderful things

 

Nice to eat that

Butterflies think 'Yummy!'

And I can stuff in my mouth

And fill up my tummy.

 

But if I do that

I'll get heavy again,

Too heavy to fly home

If it starts to rain.

 

So, I've got to be good

And eat up my greens -

No chips or pizza

Or ASDA's baked beans

 

So that one day soon

As a pretty butterfly

I can fly in your classroom

And come to say 'Hi!'                                                                                                      2011

 

 

LUCY IN THE SKY

 

Between her tiny fingers

Watching soft clouds falling,

Chases cat across the lawn

Copies the wild birds calling.

 

In the mud-house kitchen

She bakes her sloppy cakes

Seasoned with pips and seeds and stones

A holy mess she makes

 

Before she’s off to see her uncle  -

To Australia digging a hole.

Still time for a swing, bum in the air

Legs all bare, a happy soul.

                                                

All dressed up in sister’s coat,

Mummy’s outsize skirt

A battered hat and tatty shawl,

Daddy’s threadbare shirt.

 

She performs her new umbrella dance

With the aid of a rhubarb stick

Twirling round the washing line

She spins until she’s sick.

 

Round and round her face aglow

Whirls in a dizzying breeze

Falling laughing on the ground

With grass stains on her knees.

 

She weaves such magic moments

In the cloth of every day

But evening’s drawing nearer

Which means an end to play:

 

Time for tea then bath time

So it’s bye bye to flowers and trees

At last, time for mum to draw her breath –

‘Go to sleep now, Lucy – please!’

 

 

 

IN SUNLIGHT

 

Greeting the sunlight on my face,

Cherry tree listens to the laughter of my child -

Knows her well, looks on as her soft feet pace

Through buttercups and clover.

‘Playing with daisies,’ she smiled.

Sure as dark skies gather, soon will come the rain

But for now we’ll sit in sunlight – making mud cakes and tea - again!



 

JAMIE LEWIS

 

I found Jamie Lewis this morning – dead

Was it something I’d done, or something I’d said ?

Seemingly content enough yesterday

Hoppity hopping in his pen at play -

Though he didn’t really say that much

Just hopping and hiding beneath his hutch.

I suppose we’ll never know what he really felt

About the quality of life he thought he’d been dealt

But to die without goodbye in middle of the night

Was it cold or hunger, or simply fright?

What I should have done -

Going round and round in my head,

But it’s too late now - Jamie Lewis is dead.

 

 

 

 

STREET LIGHTS

 

Street lights will soon be peeping through

The curtains enfolding arms while

Through misty damp friends convene,

Exchanging stories, engaging with the news,

Fed with warmth of love and wine

Just a circle of friends, just sharing time

Then parting for home

Through the drizzle of night,

Beneath  the soft peachy glow

Of the street lights.

 

 

 

MOON

 

If you look up to the moon – it won’t blind you

But may open your eyes to guide you, calm you;

Let her befriend you, mend you,

From tongues and claws defend you.

 

Look up to the moon  - let it bind you

Open your heart and with peace

Let its mellow face satisfy you

And of how great you are, remind you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CURRIED MAGPIE

 

Magpie stalks the open grass

Stabbing remains of late night Madras,

No apparent fear of hidden dangers

But watchful eye for movement of strangers.

 

No need to rush or get in a flurry

Stabs her beak into balti curry,

Selecting, rejecting pieces of naan

Stuffing her peak, full as she can

 

But becoming absorbed with the find she’s made

Does she notice the cat prowling the shade?

She fills herself up with more sticky rice then, flap! -

To the top of a tree in a trice

 

Almost too late – just made her breakaway -

Seems all of God’s creatures can murder a takeaway!

 

 

 

 

TOPSOIL

 

So easy to be taken  for granted, security a given –

Normal, expected,

in whose contented air routine behaviour lies,

Never imagining it all could pass, this insistence

Earthed in past, that still relies

On sacrifice from hand and heart and mind

of those Who ploughed

and harrowed the topsoil, nurtured our existence.

 

One day our thrusting roots

and blades may strike an iron pan

And history record when the withering began.

 

 

 

 

AUTUMN RECIPE

 

Take a candy floss flurry of windswept cloud

Squeeze out the moisture, dip in gold

And sponge with fallen leaves;

Add pearled grass and bullrush, sunlight-dappled

Sprinkled with beech mast and a twist of sycamore keys.

Garnish with rowan and blackberry

Sieved through chestnut trees

Rich brown nuts and spiked shells discarded

By the westerly breeze that fans the sun

Reducing heat by the merest hint regarded

As enough for wild geese to fly.

Catch it all on a spider’s web

Reflect it in the mirror you hold

Preserve it and serve to all the senses

Till winter blows it cold.

 

 

 

 

VELOCIRAPTOR

 

There’s a velociraptor at the bottom of my garden -

Suddenly appeared disguised as a rosebush

With its curved lime green beak

Dark scales ruffled by the wind

Swaying slightly, as if poised to attack

The rhubarb for yielding so pathetically this year;

Occasional nod at a passing gust, wings upraised

Assuming the take-off pose.

 

Beneath its squarish head peeps a garden gnome - Disney dwarf in cheap plaster

Gazing from behind the cotoneaster,

Looking a bit greener than this time last year –

Understandable with a velociraptor poised

Directly above your head.

He appears unconcerned, looks accusingly

Across my lawn as if to say

‘Get rid of this creature’ or ‘isn’t it time you got your arse in gear

And tidied this place up? It’ll be winter soon’ -

Not that Dopey would have used so coarse a term.

 

Meanwhile velociraptor couldn’t give a fig –

Even though there is a fig tree inches from his beak.

I say ‘tree’  -  really just a pathetic sapling trying

To survive my lack of horticultural prowess,

Longing for a Mediterranean summer.

 

Ah summer! A wood pigeon flutters to the lawn

Just a few metres from swaying jaws;

But they are no fools –  know velociraptors

Are not carnivores – or are they?

Having briefly considered, Woody flaps off in instant alarm.

 

Squirrel likewise is not put off

His scavenging forays into the flower beds –

Doesn’t even recognise velociraptor for what he is –

Probably thinks it’s a penguin about to dive off an ice shelf

Or a rose bush in disguise.

So he carries on digging in the lawn

In search of croci and daffs – which he dug up

And ate last year, if he cares to remember!

 

The wind is picking up and the VR looks as though

He’s just been cleared for take-off but

Not sure if he’s a  VTO  or a road-runner -

Getting increasingly flustered about it -

Clearly lacks decision-making skills but

If he does manage to uproot and all revved up

Shoot forward, he’ll make a hell of a mess of the rhubarb

Lying right in his flight path!

 

 

 

 

FALLING LEAVES

 

Children shuffle the autumn leaves

Writhing they turn and fall –

The leaves, that is, not the children.

 

Look! -  bird’s nest swaying high

Soon they will all be bare –

The trees that is, not the birds – or the children.

 

Beneath slow grey sky

An errant flock of wild leaves has blown them off course –

The children that is, not the birds -  or the trees.

 

Another day, another season, another year complete,

A generation run its course

For in the end it is the heavens decide –

The Earth that is, collaborating with

The spheres of Moon and Sun

The only guiding motion in our lives that

Cannot be defeated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WEATHERCOCK

 

Good morning weathercock – how was your night?

First to see the Son rise, first to feel the light;

First to know and understand the changes in the wind

As you look down on Gethsemane

Where all our hopes are pinned.

 

 

 

 

GARDENING IN NOVEMBER

 

I must say

The weather’s looking especially fine today –

First day this year it’s dry enough to sit

In the garden to admire it! -  November 10^th.

 

Midday sun trying to warm my neck I survey

The length and borders of the estate

Considering them well past their weed-by date

But for now no longer work in progress – too late,’

For a bright gay carpet litters the scene -

To disturb such random beauty would be obscene

There to be admired awhile – my eco-duty

To let it be, so

 

No hedges to clip, no fences to coat,

No buds to nip, no slugs to smote;

No lawns to mow, no fruit for plucking,

No borders to hoe, though compost for chucking;

 

No branches to lop, no more rhubarb to chop

No bouquets to clasp, nor nettles to grasp

No washing to tangle, nor gnats to flap

No  spiders to dangle   nor wasps to zap.

 

And so I’ll let this moment stand

Ankle deep on my littered land,

Always thankful to remember

How cool to go gardening

On a fine day, mid November.

  

 

BARNSTON

 

Let me take you

Down the nettled path to the concrete bridge

Up the slippy slope with the clinging root

Past the digging tunnels

Across the ridge of silver birch and

Up to the rabbit field.

 

Gorse reclaims the goal mouth and the

Heather nests where bee buzz hums

Up and over the Humps where our tracks mould the soil.

Skirting the leafy bogshade

You climb to the sledge run

Or retrace a path  crunching

Through the holloway to the pigeoned pines

Where we felt the threat of trespass

Our feet sinking into the prison of years.

 

We’ll cross the trip-trap bridge

Past the campfire to the blackberry slope

Balancing on the pipeline,

Hurry beneath the zip-wire track

And there we come to – Sodville,

Rope dangling where we left it

Measuring joy with swings of pain

Falling to the stream that filled our boots

Waters rising and spilling beyond their sandy banks

To  flow on unmolested past

The deep bend of mossy cliff to vaguer lands

Beyond the mark of the tilting stone

Territory patrolled by an alien tribe.

 

Not far now, down the timber yard to the style

Where the track crosses the rail way

And we crushed small stones and pennies

Beneath the wheels

As ore trucks shuddered past.

 

No maps recall these places

No surveys to keep ways and wherefores

Open but our memories

Till memory starts to fade;

 

So let me take you there

Pass on the days to you

New acquaintance with those wild childhood spaces.

 

 

 

 

CUCKOO WOOD

 

I distantly remember the old bridge - its missing tooth

Daring us jump and risk a fall to the trickling water.

One day a second tooth gone and for some the challenge never met -

Always stones to plop instead.

 

This was my first stream, I only ever knew as ‘little’

Close to my first hill – I only ever knew as ‘big’ –

A dome of boulder clay studded with gnarled oak and treacherous bramble.

Only the big boys ran to the top, so we gauged our growth by

How close we got to the high root exposed like a rung to grip.

Always beds of dry leaves to break afall, to kick and crunch –

Gifts from the wood spirits.

 

We were trespassers, outlaws,

Wanted for climbing trees and damming streams.

The battered sign on a tree -

As if to sink nails into a living thing was a lesser crime-

Made us to sense guilt and audacity in equal measure;

We mouthed  ‘prosecution’ or read it in hushed tones

Wary of life behind bars.

 

One day the navvies came with their machines

Dug away at the hillslope where our blackberries grew,

Blackberries the size of gob-stoppers;

This was the end of our summer -  playground invaded,

Childhood violated.

 

We learned there were bad people

Who would ruin your life for a ciggy

Or piece of rope to make a swing

Or an airgun to de-brain a pigeon

Or an axe to maim a dog, massacre trees,

To light fires, make dens where girls giggled

And lost their clothes.

 

And so we came to know this tiny world was not truly ours

But the territory of whoever gripped it hardest

Scratched the deepest marks and cared least -

A lesson of history repeated.

 

Half a century on, rain-shrunk,

Old wounds scabbed  or healed  or smothered,

No voices ripple up from the little stream

No wellies try to clamber the big hill to

Slide back streaked and scratched.

Our old paths are nettled and brambling

Climbing trees gone, the magic risk of adventure erased

By the sanitised cloth of safety

And replaced by suspicion  and fear of the stranger.

 

 

DEATH OF A DOVE

 

Ragged ripped, a blizzard of feathers

As a dove lay bleeding

Mangled wing and breast asunder

Dark eye pleading

Vainly she struggles, flapping the earth

Life-flow fading

Till at my feet she laid it

Soft and still

Dark eye pleading

I trust to the edge of my spade.

 

 

 

FOG

 

Fog come,

Blur thoughts,

Obliterate my day,

So pierced by a tree that bears no fruit nor leaf,

Wrap your chill October arms around me, hide my shame,

Conceal my grief.

 

 

 

 

GOING HOME

 

Scoured by dust

Blotched and bleached by sun

Colours of day have faded

And nightmares won’t leave me alone.

My visions are rust

Trampled in dirt my spirit is done

Dreams jaded

Gouged by the knife

Shot at and spat out

Spurned by the suits and dark glasses

And I feel like going home.

 

 

 

 

RETURNING SPRING

 

From the numb bones of northern winter

Etched and cleaved by hoary frost

A paint-box springs;

Hard pencilled lines of cold melt away

As colours fill each face, warm skin

And breathe new life

Into the body of the day.




 

LAMENT OF THE DAFFODIL

 

What! More snow!

Just when I thought it was safe

To leap into spring

Daylight stretching out

And promising great things.

 

I took her at her word

Shook my golden head at the sky

Expecting admiration and delight

And what do I get?

A Siberian scarf and a snow cap to keep me warm!

Too late to leap back into bed – I’m up now!

 

I blame the jet stream –  no consideration!

What we southerners have to go through – SAD!

Whether solar inactivity

Or rising sea levels

Or acid sodding rain

Or climate change!

It’s always the spring flowers get hammered.

Still, can’t say we weren’t warned.

May not appear at all next year – that’ll show ‘em!

 

 

 

 

SUMMER 2012

 

A very English summer – whatever that means:

Too short lived,

A braving of the weather at Wimbledon or Lords,

Slithering weekends at Glastonbury,

A brief eruption of gaiety at Notting Hill.

 

But this summer the carnival feast came home;

On evenings of splendour

We savoured strawberries, glossy and voluptuous

On cloudy evenings,

Embedded in blue-black berries and southern grapes

With slivers of pear and plum

And raspberries straight from the cane;

A sprinkling of nuts perhaps

With a mandarin crescent mooned on a bilberry sky.

We held our bowl aloft

Five rings crowned in cream and gold

Like a torch.

 

 

 

 

 

TREE

 

Lone survivor, forgotten scrap

Shivering like some withered hag with

Nowhere to go,

Head bent to an icy blast that

Howls through the sockets of sightless faces

Huddled against the whips and spits

Making of hopes and dreams  

A wasteland,

Awaiting an end.

 

This was the first poem I ever wrote (that I can remember) – in 1970 shortly after first going to live as a student in Manchester. It is about the demolition of the terraced streets of Moss-side and along with all that destruction, the ruination of people’s hopes and security,  as promises were broken. The replacement housing left a lot to be desired.

 

 

 

SLEEPING IN TENT

 

What’s it like to sleep in a tent?

Remove the phones and I’ll tell you:

 

Soon as you zip the door you feel 

Cocooned, hearing everything distinctly -

Wind, trees, the whispering grasses you’ve never heard before.

Scuffling and rustlings make you snuggle deeper in your bag;

Pitterings on the roof, pattering across the floor

And slumber on to a new dawn waking.

You are a butterfly with wings to explore

A new and chilly world born

Specially to greet you with glorious song.

 

Soon as you unzip the door you feel

The magic of the sunrise.

Fire soon crackles, the smell of woodsmoke –

Bacon mushroom and eggs conspire to

Draw you out into the morning air and stare into its fiery glow

Lost, to time reborn unbound and footloose,

Light-hearted and alive.

 

So switch off the TV, put the i-phone on the shelf,

Tune to the wild and discover yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

SLEEPING IN TENT?

 

You ask what it’s like to sleep in a tent -

Take the phones from your ears and I will tell you:

 

If you’re out in a forest, on a mountain or moor

As soon as you crawl in and zip the door

You feel safe, cocooned

As if your spirit has been retuned;

You hear everything distinctly, precise

The wind, the trees, birds you’ve never heard before

And that is nice.

Scuffling and rustlings –

Small creatures that sniff and creep

Out in the dark and make you snuggle deep

Ploppings and droppings that bounce on the roof

Seem scary at first but we know the truth

And wake to a dawn bright as never before

A fresh and chilly world that’s yours to explore.

 

Specially to greet you the songs of the birds -

No need for the radio natter and chatter of words

With the magic of the sunrise aglow in your eyes

The mist is rising as a curlew cries.

A crackling fire as wood-smoke unfurled

Breakfast aromas – you’re on top of the world.

Savouring the moment, at one with the morning

For storms may arrive with almost no warning 

But you feel reborn living life in the raw –

And come to appreciate what these places are for

As you stare into the remains of the fire

As if time, restarted, is taking you higher.

 

That is what it’s like to sleep in a tent.

So  let’s put your DS back on the shelf

Switch off the TV and discover it yourself.                                                    2012

 

 

  

 

 

  

 

SONG FOR THE MAGPIE

 

I’m writing a song for the magpie

To teach him how to sing

To move in rhythm and shake the roots

Of his black and flapping wing.

 

He grips the minds of children

With his feathers all glossy and sleek

Then pecks their soul to pieces

And devours it with his beak.

 

So I’ve written a song for the magpie

But the magpie doesn’t care –

Parades before the camera calling

‘Catch me if you dare!’

 

 

 

 

FINAL FRONTIER

 

A drink, a toast

To the final landscape of our age

Summer not yet memory

Though days grow shorter.

 

Natural to have wandered our own ways,

Centrifugal lives spun out

Now to meet on the same shore,

The final frontier to explore.

 

But I’ll not release summer without a fight,

I’ll leave the back door open

To create more shadows, capture more light,

More hours, more insect life

And warm breezes to whisper sleepily

Around the house

Looking for olives and Beaujolais.

 

 

 

 

BLUE-TITS

 

There are blue-tits in my garden

I love to hear them chirping;

I gave them fizzy pop to drink

And now just hear them burping.

 

 

 

 

CHOPPING BOARD

 

Here is where I first shed blood

In the cause of family values,

The cuts, the scores, scratching, cross-hatching

Slicing into grain and vein

The wounds of countless long-forgotten blades

Brandished around food taken for granted,

Planted with tradition – no chilli or aubergine

No pak choi, no wok, no tagine;

If it couldn’t be grown in English soil

It would never make the loup de loup.

 

So I jumped the hoop,

Learned the flavour of different knives,

To trim the skins, slice the chives

Dice carrot, cut dough into gingerbread men

Or corrugated scones and then

There’s the garden harvest of rhubarb and cherry,

Blackcurrant, pear and gooseberry,

Or gather gifts from the buzzing brambled wayside.

Here I was left to work it out for myself

And I stabbed in the dark which has left its stain.

 

 

 

 

LOST PHOTOGRAPH

 

They peered through a sepia window Into the past.

‘Who is this old lady?’ they asked,

‘She’s holding a baby – is this you?’

‘If that was me, cheeky monkey, I’d be

About a hundred and twenty two’.

 

She is disregarding the lens

Focused on the babe about to cry

Upon the sudden flash;

 

It is his world now, not hers - all these new-fangled ways -

Give me the old-fangled any day!

No time for appearances – usual habit: pinafore and apron

Will just have to do and the plain white bonnet

That trapped her thinning hair.

Yes, it’s the child’s world now, God bless him.

 

‘So, my angels’, I said. ‘I do not know –

An ancestor certainly – see the nose, the chin, the calmness in her eyes;

But mother, aunt or grandma  - hard to tell who or where or when

Sad there are none alive who know.

 

And yet though she may have left nothing but a trapped moment,

She is looking at the future, looking back at you.’




 

 LAST VISIT TO LANDFORD

 

I pulled into the drive,

Headlights beamed  a greeting at the garage door

As the engine purred to sleep.

I listened as the metal cooled,

Tutting at the chill of the night and shivering

Like an intruder, I turned the key,

Heard the familiar complaint of the door

Dragged across the carpet

The dark void of the hall lit by nothing.

 

They didn’t seem to know me, these walls, as with

Cat-like tread I slid from room to room

Disturbing dead air,

Waking the curtains with a shriek

Throwing a peach-black glow across the floor.

 

All was as it had ever been, down to the

Deeper silence congealed in shadow

Filling the ceiling cracks

Masking imperfections made by boisterous boys,

Scars on battle-weary furniture.

 

Winter light fades so quickly – barely time .............

 

I sat in my father’s chair,

Looked across to mother’s rocker,

Felt the cold stream of air beneath the door          

Seep around my ankles like a tide

As I pondered the last words spoken - were they kind?

 

Strange to see you had washed up,

No ironing, kitchen bins to be emptied and the beds all made.

Maintaining appearances, the cold habits of a lifetime.

 

And who will feed the birds?

Who will brush the cobwebs from the walls

Sweep autumn leaves from the gutters

And repair the damp patch in the living room ceiling?

Not this soft celestial light not the soundless dust,

The eternal silence,

Not this strange cold thirst for

A spring that will never come.

 

 

 

CROW

 

Crow struts round my garden

Looking for a fight;

Cat creeps round the corner –

He buggers off in fright.




 

LANDICAN LANE

 

As I followed the lane to Landican

An old man beside me came,

Wheeled his ancient bicycle, the way

Deeply rutted and boulder strewn.

 

We continued beneath the wayside oaks,

The waving fields of corn then

‘Tell me’, he asked ‘for I am not from these parts,

How do you raise your young?’

‘I would hope’, I replied, ’with joy and love in their hearts,

An inquisitive air, a sense of morality’.

‘And justice?’

‘And justice, of course, for without

We are eternally corrupt’.

 

‘And what of religion? In which Gods do you trust?

‘In truth faiths are many and we are blessed in this land

To be free to choose

Though there are those who abuse

This right and abuse their God with twisted reason’.

 

‘And of your women – are they well respected?’

‘In modern times as our equal in law

Though in word and deed oftentimes neglected’.

 

‘And your elders – what of their status?’

‘One would hope respected too and revered for

Wisdom and experience but alas

Too often rejected, beyond the margins

Of care and usefulness and compassion;

This is our sadness and our disgrace.’

 

We walked awhile as sunlit silence

Dripped through the trees,

Bicycle bouncing over cobbles the size of loaves.

 

‘Then tell me how you dispose of your dead –

From what you have said

I expect practices vary.’

 

‘Indeed. But in general we return to the earth  or

With fire consumed - a sort of second death

With ashes spread - dust to dust we say,

Some believe the soul released has no more use

For their mortal self, but either way

Long for remembrance by  stone or plaque, or a heart.

But tell me why you ask such things,

Where your interest lies ’.

I tried to look into his face, read his weary eyes

He turned instead towards me, fixed me with his gaze

And I saw a light, felt a glow, and lo! My friend was gone.




 

LATE SUMMER

 

August – not done with us yet!

Ice-bucket diversions become a reality

As a northerly plume douses

Each excursion in dull retracting light.

 

Oak and ash and silver birch have lurched

From joyous greens, sulking

Like boys denied ice cream

Already given up on long summer nights

 

Lawn each morning carpeted with

Shared disappointment while

Squirrels triple jump from tree to shivering tree.

 

The slackening of sinews, arthritic nodules administering pain

Such treachery in blasted joints and limbs

Sap no longer rising and all the while

As light dims the prospect

Of making footprints in the snow

Leading nowhere.

 

 

 

 

FLY TIPPER AND OTHER PESTS

 

All hail the phantom fly-tipping fiend

so widely abhorred,

so seldom seen

who assembles by day

an unsavoury load

and dumps by stealth

at the side of the road.

 

By stealth and by moonlight

he’ll empty his truck

into woodland and hedges –

couldn’t give a fuck

about visual pollution,

harm to wild life

encouraging the rats

now growing rife.

 

Swathes of our farmland

becoming unsightly

somewhere outstanding

vandalised nightly

these blots on the landscape

beget running sores

the longer this diabolical practice endures.

 

Mattresses, sofas, builders’ rubble

why drive to the tip –

why take the trouble

when there’s acres of space

by the verges and woods

to dispose of your trash

and your clapped out white goods.

 

Disposable nappies,

condoms and syringes

an old garage door

that’s come off its hinges,

car tyres and batteries,

sump oil and fridges

sharing a space with

the horseflies and midges.

 

Electrical wiring, the wheel of a bike

to entangle your boots

when you’re out on a hike.

Fibreglass bath and ceramic urinal

dumped by an ejit due

 for come-uppence final.

 

You’ll be rounding the shoulder

of some mountain peak;

for a wonderful view

of the landscape you seek

when the trackway is plastered

with cartons and wrappers

and loo roll discarded by wayside crappers.

 

So let’s bring back hanging

for such an offence

and I put it to you

that it’s not a defence

to say you’re no worse

than the pickers of poo –

not the dog’s fault –

it’s just what dogs do –

the whorls and sausages

that steam and gag

yet they hang it from branches

in small plastic bags.

 

So, no cheers for the tippers

or pickers of poo

who’ll be coming to a beauty-spot

somewhere near you

until you are caught

and reparation is due

we lovers of England can only say

BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!




 

STAY GOLDEN

 

Dying sun fondled by an autumn chill

Turning bitter as the years grow cold and

Each day that rises weaker

Steel-edged winds a little bleaker

Punch grey holes where leaves should be.

I silently plead with her be still-

Stay forever golden.

 

 

 

 

LEGEND OF BARBECUE BILL              

 (acknowledgement to Lennon and McCartney’s ‘Legend of Bungalow Bill’)

 

He lit the charcoal then he turned the flames up high;

he let the cinders glow, the smoke curled to the sky

and when he used his tongs he’d sometimes let you try…..

Hey Barbecue Bill,

What do you grill, Barbecue Bill?

 

He wore a fresh crisp apron trimmed with purple stripes;

as grease spots hit his spectacles Bill would give a wipe;

never cooks with dirty nails  -he simply ain’t that type.

 

There’s chicken wings and burgers but still, veggies have a ball.

There’s fish wrapped up in silver foil, cos Bill, he grills it all.

With skill he’d turn things over – none of ‘em would fall……

Hey Barbecue Bill,

What do you grill, Barbecue Bill?

 

Sometimes he’d grill a ready meal in its shiny foil tin

‘Not when it’s so hard to pierce’, his momma butted in,

but make sure its defrosted  well before you begin.

 

The lamb chops start to sizzle and Bill gives ‘em a turn;

he gives all the kids a go so that they will learn

just how to test the sausages  and never let ‘em burn…….

Hey barbecue Bill,

What do you grill, Barbecue Bill?

 

Succulent aromas drift around the neighbourhood;

passers-by peep in to try to see what smells so good.

Bill invites ‘em in a-while but they ain’t gonna get no pud.

 

Relishes and sauces and mustard by the ton

just awaitin’  you to spread ‘em thick upon your wholemeal bun,

returnin’ for a refill he fills every rumblin’ tum

Hey barbecue Bill,

What do you grill, Barbecue Bill?

 

Now, one time Bill got distracted by a person of desire.

Guess we’ll never know what it was but something strange caught fire.

The way Bill doused those flames with beer  was something to admire.

 

He’d time things to perfection left nothing there as raw,

the hot end from the cooler yeah, Bill sure knew the score

then dished it out quite fairly but there was always plenty more….

 

Then one day Bill was summoned to that barbie in the sky -

his beard caught fire one afternoon – I recall it was late July.

Now he’s cookin’ for the angels –  just hear them onions fry.

Hey Barbecue Bill,

What do you grill, Barbecue Bill?

 

 

 

 

BUGGY

 

Taking my grandson to feed the ducks

wrapped all snuggy-wuggy

but the sodding mechanism sucks –

I can’t erect his buggy.

 

 

 

 

CHAFFINCH

 

An excited flurry of feathers

schwerring in delight that we have come

twitting between branches

chirping and twirring from twig to twig

to claim a spec to see us better.

 

 

 

 

WANDERINGS

 

We wandered in fields

from dawn to dusk

scoured the wayside bushes for free

for berries and fruit, nuts and seeds

till the birds called us home for tea.

 

Never saw the woodland as a fence

nor the misfit stream a drain –

only when we went too far

did nature cause us pain.

 

 

 

IN THE MIDST OF STRANGERS

 

In the midst of strangers

the wings of jeopardy unfold

with the glamour of a butterfly

but dangers

to paralyse our borders

with rhodos and hydrangeas

to weaken the spirit of native species

when knotweed spreads and chokes –

a silent stealthy invasion

that could have been corrected,

bent spokes removed so

the wheels still turn and we’ll

tend the garden uninfected.

 

 

 

 

NATURAL RECOVERY

 

How easy for nature to

reclaim our ferro-concrete world

champing at the brick to reclothe

our asphalt ways

leaf and fern unfurled.

 

See how she practises

tries her gritty hand at

mossing the roof, sprouting

from gutters and paving cracks

rotting the carcass of the cars

that lie in stacks

as if awaiting burial

the weathered stone of tomb and portal

struts and frames consumed

the mouldering fence that has

divided opinion splintered

and reduced to dust by

summer suns and the

frosts of numberless winters.

 

No cataclysm nor tidal surge

just the urge by seed and spore

thistledown, dandelion and haw

to infiltrate, connive by wind and wild bird

free to colonise as before –

when we are gone.

 

 

 

 

MOONLIGHT LADY

 

Goodnight moonlight lady

your slow glide I have watched

from a distant curve of space

and sighed at your elegant passing

and on this your closest approach

in spite of your cold heart

I can almost drink your light

feel your lost breath

while your dance is slow

to show the red dress you have worn

just for me.

So, moonlight lady, goodnight

I will not see you beyond the dawn.

 

 

 

HEDGEROW

 

All along the hedgerow

where berries shine

sunlight sets fire to winter

caught by the jewelled tiaras

of spider webs

and the frost encrusted leaf.

All along the hedgerow

where the light of winter is thine.

 

 

 

LOVE OF TREES

 

I have always loved trees

regarded them as friends,

looked up to them

knowing the strength of their unfolding arms,

allowing me to climb into their cool dappled calm,

whispering confidences into their shade;

from there to watch,

a space away from the adult realm

for thoughts to run free and

worries to unfurl.

So to this day I look for climbable trees

for the children of my children

to be held as friends and to climb, away

from a questioning world.

 

 

 

 

 

IMMIGRANTS

 

So familiar, you might say,

they have been here forever,

witness to the bleakest of times

since the retreat of the ice.

And yet, no, proud survivors -

chestnut, sycamore, magnolia

among others,

brought for a purpose from afar,

now subsumed into our soil, our DNA,

blending with our centuries old sap

to form a national forest

coming to share a heritage, remodelling,

enhancing a landscape

through form and colour and habit.

 

One day we may cease to fear such difference

and hold in special awe a view

that binds us in the same soil

with feelings of strength and belonging.

 

 

 

THE HAND OF MAN

 

From the lakeshore I wander

inevitably upwards

through beech-wood into

the exposure of the fells and beyond

into breath-taking wonder.

But I always find myself

searching for the hand of man

among the wild turf, the drystone walls,

the quarries, the ruins and desolation.

And I wonder:

who dug this, who built these

who planted those,

looking for the hand of man

until I re-emerge from thought into

the disquieting comfort of my room.