POETRY

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Here's a selection of my poems for MAY

I update this website at the start of each month with a fresh selection of my poetry.   

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ALBRECHT DURER  -  COWSLIPS

                              Maidenhead Thicket consists of 215 acres of woodland
                              and common land including a huge wild flower meadow.

COWSLIPS      (What’s in a name?)

Old English : “Cüslyppe” – “pastures with cowpats” :

Poor flower! Named after a habitat
with such a close affinity to dung!
Yet “fairy cups” was favoured by the young —
sure that flower bells gave fairies shelter.
With profile like a key, the cowslips’ flowers’
epithet does not involve excreta —
more cachet, “Heavens’ Keys” or “Key Peter”…
The legend has the saint dropping his keys —
cowslips bloom there instantaneously…
The Thicket’s acres of cowslips in their prime —
Butter-fingered Peter...How many times?!

                                     Thanks to DOLA AI for putting me in a Cadillac with Mr. Rock'n'Roll Chuck Berry

MAGIC RADIO 105.4 FM
(Every little thing they play is magic)

Drivin’ along in my automobile
with Chuck beside me at the wheel;
tunin’ to FM as we drive,
searchin’ for back-beats and a vibe;
cruisin’ and playin’ the radio
with no particular place to go.

We’ve pulled up MAGIC on the screen,
their non-stop hits play like a dream —
Turn up the volume – don’t play it low!
Abracadabra! Magic to go!
So many songs called “magic” in store…
our sound-tracked Magical Mystery Tour.

Drivin’ along in my automobile
with Chuck beside me at the wheel;
Black Magic Woman from Peter Green,
A Kind of Magic, Freddie and Queen…
cruisin’ and playin’ the radio
with no particular place to go.

      With apologies to Chuck Berry)

THEY’RE BACK!

The buzz of insects marks the change
to longer days, more sunny hours.
Primroses wane, bluebells appear,
with Nature’s changing of the guard
the hedges green while blackthorn fades,
its blossom soon replaced by may.
Along fields’ edge red campion thrives;
the oak is out before the ash
and cowslips carpet Pinkney’s Green.
On every verge there’s Queen Anne’s Lace.

Suddenly, down this corridor
of chestnut candles, pink and white,
that old familiar swoop and climb
of swift birds in their high speed flight —
a mirage from a clear blue sky.
Caught in that instant’s passing glimpse —
a sight to warm the coldest heart —
these emblems of the changing year
are emissaries for the sun
proclaiming summer has begun.

.

ONE STROKE FROM THE END

Chatting of the English football team,
we drove in through the gateway to the course
to see an old man stagger and then fall.
Balanced on his knees by bunker's edge,
the stranger toppled slowly to the ground.
It only took a second to sink in—
this joker wasn't here to fool around.
Car abandoned crudely on the verge,
we rushed in trepidation to the scene.
Focused on this grandpa in the sand —
worried by the way he held his breath —
knowing we were running short of time,
hoping to avert a death. ’"Clear airways !”—
First Aid advice we knew, from his mouth
we hooked plastic teeth, his face was purple
and his eyes were closed, phlegm dripped down his chin
Onto his vest....Next the ’kiss of life“
(How many pumps, how many breaths?)
and who to perform this special act?...
There's no partner here, relative or wife.

Grateful to avoid the dreadful task
of intimacy with that toothless maw,
I gently helped to turn him on his side
so that we could lift him from the sand.
Then time stood still as others gave him breath,
yet still our old boy's face turned slowly blue...
And as his pulse grew faint the birds still sang,
the sun stayed bright and we all stared at death.

At last, thank God, the ambulance arrived.
The crew, rapid and professional, soon
wired him up to their machine to jump
start him again. So, for all we knew,
hope left with granddad in the ambulance —
I felt, deep inside, our old boy was dead.

He'll look so peaceful in the mortuary :
his family and friends will all agree,
“He died doing what he liked.” They won't know
what haunts my dreams or ever comprehend
how our lack had marked his card
just one stroke from the end.

VIEW FROM HERE Where sheep once grazed, the town has grown : cheap terraces crawl up the hill, an overspill that planners planned — another eyesore pays the bills. This valley sees another tide of buildings stretching from the town, industrial parks and service roads reach out towards the distant downs. Greed is the spur to rip the land, to tear out minerals from below; to gouge the hills and mine the fields and take the home of fox and crow. Beyond this rise the land is safe : farmed and cared for down the years; viewed from afar, from distant hills, mosaic of fields and woods is clear. Protected for a thousand years these hills and valleys are unchanged : no infill, quarry, house or road this view will ever disarrange. Yet recently a change has come promoted by the farmers here: "An innocent reuse of land — a different crop should not be feared." Soon acres of fluorescent growth on each farm dominates the scene, the country's raped by oil seed — a yellow sea which once was green. And now the view from here has changed dramatically in so few years, over valleys, plains, distant hills fields of rape have soon appeared. But that's not all, more sinister is how rape spreads by hand unseen : wind blown for miles from farmer's fields the seeds, like snow fall in a dream, seems now to be most everywhere, out of control it will succeed in covering every inch of land till nothing shows but oil seed.
EVOCATION ( Remembering Mother...) Uncertain that my memory serves me well — my nose pressed to the window of the past for images that flicker like old film with action blurred and features lost to chance. I hold your ring with keepsakes from before — mementoes of the times and life we shared, without your essence they can never spark but memories persist though you're not here. In my teens I couldn’t understand you — why you worried as I enjoyed my life... Fretting past midnight, waiting for my child, in adulthood, I recognize your strife.
WILD RANSOMS Along the cliff edge — too far to safely reach — these white bells tantalised with their strange scent : a pungent odour on the breeze their signature. Later, in Roseland, we saw them grown like weeds : filling meadows, smothering hedgerow grass, covering the roadside verge like gentle drifts of snow. And, at St. Just, filling the churchyard there, bluebells and ransoms like a haze on every bank, round ancient graves. and, through the palm That grows where you now rest, a solitary ransom flower had set. Though far away in miles and time, the smell of garlic takes me back — transports me instantaneously to that Spring day : the tiny church, the muddy creek, the ransom flowers and you.
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