POETRY

                                                                                                                   Claude Monet : Le Bassin Aux Nympheas

Views from the Towpath

Still waters reflect tall buildings,
cool, dark shadows under bridges,
reversed graffiti from old walls.

There’s buddleia and willow herb,
moorhens and a heron fishing :
all of them in mirror image,
enlivening old watercourse.

To the side of the main channel
near a lock – quite unexpected –
is a pool of water lilies,
numbers doubled by reflections.

So exquisite in their setting –
walkers stop in admiration,
conversation turns to Monet’s
Giverny – his water garden
and Le Bassin Aux Nympheas…

When does art become investment?
Do some eyes behold just money?
Can it still be “truth is beauty”
and, for all, that “beauty’s truth?”

Here the sun still shines on water
highlighting these perfect lilies;
witness to Damascus moment
for a walker on the towpath,
pausing, on the way to Limehouse.

In June 2008, Claude Monet’s painting Le Bassin Aux Nympheas,
Was sold at auction in London for £41million.

THE KNACK

Looking across the net
he knew the way the kid would feel.
He had been there himself :
knowing no fear,
ebullient and self possessed —
riding his strength and skill.
Hunger, ambition, arrogance
fuelled his success —
then he could sleep at night :
confident, the best.

His time has come. His body aches.
The proud flame that drives him on
evaporates.
Clothes cling with sweat,
sweat stings his eyes —
trapped in a cauldron of heat and noise.

Over the net, that young kid’s
features change as he pictures there
faces of champions he’s played.
In silence he focuses his will.
Playing from memory —
of aces from the past —
he winds up, refreshed :
serving for the match.

STILL LIFE WITH FEATHERS

One bracing day, we watched them go :
leaving the nest box in strong winds.
Unable to fly in such a gale,
from off the ground I rescued one
and placed him in a nearby tree,
knowing that soon he would be found
by anxious, watching, parent birds.
Next day we saw that four bird brood
perched in the apple tree in line,
fluttering wings, demanding food.

Weeks later, from my laddered perch,
I freed the birdbox, took it down,
ready to empty, clean and paint.
The final stubborn screw unscrewed,
carefully I removed the roof
allowing daylight to flood in
to this dark space – the bluetit’s home.
A filigree of spider’s web
obscured the nest, catching the sun,
masking the contents from my sight.

Perched on a bed of moss and fur
with face inclined towards the hole
through which he’d last heard parents’ call
and watched his siblings take to flight,
he seemed complete. Perfect and whole —
as if somehow he’d been preserved,
saved by God’s taxidermist’s art —
waiting for tiny wings to grow
enough to take him to the light
and join his brood ... if life could start.

PRIVET

…I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning, than this bitter one
(Old Man – Edward Thomas)

Initially, like Thomas’s “Old Man,”
this pungent smell is difficult to place :
familiar – both bitter and yet sweet —
it does not chime with me like other scents.

Hovering on thick air like memories,
it stops me in my tracks and makes me think :
arriving in fresh waves, just like the past,
it leads me to a hedge across the street.

Carefully shaped : dark leaves cut trim and close,
do not disclose the very thing I seek
but, where the shears have missed a growing tip,
tiny white spikes of flowers now persist.

There, softly in late sun, scent speaks to me :
transports me down the vista of the years
to where an old man, dressed in corduroy,
flashes quick shears, watched by a lonely boy.

SAYING GOODBYE

(St. Just in Roseland)

Deep peace of the Running Wave to you....

The creek is full.
Tidal water reflects blue sky.
Bright sun gilds tiny waves,
warming worn stone
and young shoulders.

Deep peace of the Flowing Air to you.....

The lime trees hum with bees,
somewhere a pigeon coos.
Waters' soft plash — lapping old hulls,
palm leaves shimmer as the sea exhales —
serenity breathes through this place.

Deep peace of the Quiet Earth to you...

A seagull wheels and cries;
Hands are held, ashes poured.
"Did they love you and you love them?"
Child and adult think last thoughts,
two turves are turned.

Deep peace of the Shining Stars to you...

Above, a Celtic cross;
acanthus leaves unfurl.
For a moment all is still,
as if a breath is held.
The bell chimes as he reads :

Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.

Lines in bold italic script are from an ancient Celtic Benediction

THE GHOST SHIPS

Woken by the moonlight from my window,
I stumbled out of bed just half awake.
Rubbing eyes, amazed to see the Swallow,
the Fox and Frolic, Sandwich and Sheldrake.
Packet ships are filling all the moorings
in shadow ranks across a silver sea,
Cygnet, Redpole, even Francis Freeling —
the masts a forest out from Greenbank Quay.
Not one light illuminates the cabins
of the spectre ships that have all come home,
some battle scarred, some as floating coffins —
forever in the darkness they must roam.
Prophetic warning? - Portent from the seas?
Or, just like Scrooge, a bad attack of cheese?

Britain was almost continuously at war during the 18th and 19th centuries.
Fast, lightly armoured packet ships carried mail from Falmouth to the
British Embassies and the colonies. These ships had to run the gauntlet
of attack and capture from Britain’s enemies and opportunistic pirates. Many
of the Packet Ship Captains stayed at what is now The Greenbank Hotel.

FORCE of NATURE

Whoosh! Like a force of nature they arrive…
Starlings. This boisterous, squawking, noisy mob,
strutting, uncouth gang, intimidate all
cautious birds : dunnocks, chaffinch, secret wrens.

Spreading across the feeding site, they clear
spilt grain, steal perches from the smaller birds.
Clumsily they ride the feeder’s wild swing —
scattering seed on hooligans below,
stabbing at brave sparrows, bluetits, finches
whose presence threatens to disrupt the show.

Leaving as quickly as they came, this flock -
of - one - mind swarms a laden apple tree
to ruin near-ripe fruit with casual pecks.
Then off again, a ragged hurtling mass,
to pounce on fields, string power lines like beads.

At day’s close they rise as one : this wheeling,
darkling flock shape-shifts in a setting sun.
Across the land a ritual soon repeats :
sharing a common pulse they turn, turn again,
flocks swoop fields, skirt factories, circle streets
as they follow weird tracks through empty air —
invisible to all but these strange birds.

At old Bisham two golfers have to wait
as starlings drive the fairway of the eighth;
like swarming bees they funnel single file,
descend upon an ivy-covered trunk
to disappear completely - swallowed up…
Creating, from a tree and avian clan,
a trembling, cackling sight of the Green Man.

IN PRAISE OF SUMMER RAIN

Soft rain, essential lifeblood of all plants,
for growth, to bloom and bear their fruit and seeds —
Gardeners have to water when rain’s scant
to satisfy plant’s thirst and vital needs…

Tonight the shush of rain from darkling skies —
refreshes baked earth with its soothing kiss,
washed away the dust and dirt that lies
on paths and roads — cools Summer’s heat… a freshness.

Rain can fall as tears of joy or sorrow —
this gift from heaven can express my mood,
night rain can signify a bright tomorrow
or leave me melancholy and subdued.

The best rain waters gardens in the night —
the sort that ends before the sun’s first light.