POETRY

A selection of my poems for MAY

 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.

OUT OF AFRICA

Swifts turn and call above the Alhambra :

tent like palaces with slim marble poles,

honeycombed ceilings charm all cameras –

reflected in water where tourists stroll.

Climbing burnished air, these dark scimitars

swoop the cooling fountains where Nasrids sipped;

led the Moors to Spain, out of Africa,

tracing burning skies with Arabic script.

Links to bygone age and Muslim conquests –

swifts still nest today on Sabika Hill.

A few led the way to England’s north-west,

a strange paradise where the air is chill…

There’s no palace here for modern pilgrims –

plastic minarets that a lone swift skims

VIEW FROM HERE

Where sheep once grazed, the town has grown :

cheap terraces crawl up the hill,

an over-spill 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.

GOING GENTLY

(Minnou)

Rescued from abuse – we had to build your trust –

you sat and watched our other cat and learned.

So timid then, your instinct was to hide

and once, in terror, threw yourself down stairs.

We watched and saw your confidence return –

the garden and the sun became your friends

and everyday you’d make your way outside

or watched from windowsill on days of rain.

We gave kindness, food, shelter and a home

and in return you offered so much joy,

repaying us with closeness and your purr

and with a gentle love, so unreserved.

Now, as the days grow long, your life grew short

as age and illness wasted you away;

despite our care, the medicines and love

are useless now and can’t postpone this day.

You rested, feather-light in midday sun

on friendly lap, content with stroking hands…

and with a gentle breath you slipped away

like thistledown on wind… and pain was gone.

PIGEON

Home from a visit west,

we found him – thin, forlorn –

perched on the back of our chaise longue.

Soiled, stained by his droppings,

our pride and joy was wrecked –

delicate gold cloth cruelly flecked.

His refuge from the storm :

a tight squeeze through the gap

of our forgotten, open sash.

Too tired to even move,

too weak to lift his head,

the bracelets on his legs were read

to trace his Blackburn loft.

We wrote, and by return,

a scribbled note and his fare home.

Peeved by damage and expense

I thought I’d set him free

and claim a kind of recompense –

but he held back, can’t go.

Wind ruffles feathers,

but wings won’t reach the sky –

uncertainty clouds his red eye.

Frightened, directionless,

he fights against the pain

of instincts lost battling the rain.

So by train ( safely boxed)

my conscience helped him go

to seek and find the compass of his home.

FARMS

From the new motorway we spot them

tucked away in valleys,

hidden in hollows,

concealed for centuries —

away from any roads.

Detached, stand-offish,

screened from inquisitive eyes

beyond a copse of trees…

What drives this strange elusiveness?

Others can be spotted climbing hills,

clinging to the vertiginous edge.

Living life exposed,

subject to wind and weather,

why do hill farmers

choose such a challenging life?

Is it in their genes?

Were ancestors blessed

with a reckless head for heights?

Their appeal, as such,

is their distinctiveness.

And, what of the rest?

The Home Farms and Brookfields

with their open-days,

pristine yards and level ground.

They welcome you with old stone,

local flint, old timbers

and roses round the door.

Uniform, their fields of perfect crops,

immaculate Jersey cows…

Such model farms,

almost too good to be true.

ON FINDING NOTHING TO DO

Why did you let the Sloth of age take hold,

when all you’d planned was just a little kip?

While letting lunch go down with your eyes closed,

Sloth hugged you, comatose, in three toed grip.

Sloth’s onset is ennui and feeling tired —

the simplest task seems harder to conclude;

Sloth seeks out anyone with less to do,

praying on the work-shy and retired.

Pernicious Sloth ingratiates itself :

attractive to both young and old alike,

it takes the drive from young dynamic men

and slim girls end up fat and on the shelf.

Those legions who just watch the world go by —

living a lie — manage to cope. Shirkers,

layabouts — fishermen without a hook —

are happy enough to give Sloth a try.

Poets, painters and assorted thinkers

can live in disarray just for their art;

somehow the everyday does not intrude —

while others cook and clean Sloth has them blinkered :

“I’ll sleep on it,” they say to all things new…

But is Sloth’s route the way you want to take?

It infiltrates like some unseen disease —

disables, brings you down like Asian Flu.

And, in no time, you find your life has slowed

to the flicker of a Day Room’s TV screen;

with others, dozing fitfully in chairs,

you wait to take the ride down Churchyard Road.