POETRY

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Here's a selection of my poems for JULY

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

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THE HARVESTERS - Pieter Bruegel The Elder  (1526 - 1569

Sparrow Hawk 

I took this photograph from a window overlooking our patio...

HAWK

From our bedroom, I heard your breathless call :
“A sparrowhawk! Come quietly, be quick!”

Halting, short of the glass, I slowly inched
to where we both could watch the visitor —
like Alfred’s “…nature, red in tooth and claw.”

Just yards from where we stood she slowly fed :
the ornamental driftwood was her perch
and butcher’s block – grey wood now tinged with red.

And all the time she fed she looked around —
more cautious than the birds she terrorised —
fixing our window with her yellow stare,
pausing, head cocked, aware of every sound.

Then, startled into nervy flight, she fled
across the lawn towards a blood-red sun,
her gory talons grasping her ripped prey.

Behind she left a puff of wind-blown down,
torn feathers and, to mark her mid-air kill,
a smear of bird lime stains the pristine drive…

The friendly, fearless robin’s voice is stilled.

This poem is taken from my new collection “WHOOSH!”
The book launch is scheduled for AUGUST 1st.
Please visit BIOGRAPHY & BOOKS on my website for full details... 

HUMMINGBIRD HAWK MOTH

Making the most of August sun,
I took my towel to dry outside;

Just short of the patio wall,
I heard a high-pitched humming sound.

My eyes were drawn towards the sun,
to something hovering above

Thick body weighs too much for flight —
A spider hanging on a thread?

But then it moved diagonally,
it’s haze of wings creating sound.

Hovering agapanthus flowers
its tongue reached down to test each bloom;

precisely, as if in a lift,
it changed station, up and down.

Lingering close by each new flower,
it probed for nectar with long tongue

then, abruptly changed direction,
cleared the wall and it was gone…

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.

 50s INCIDENT

“We always had to make our own amusement..”

A stranger staying down our road
(visiting with his favourite aunt)
had gained respect from local kids
by telling tales of things he did.
His railway trick was new to me
and, on those boring summer days,
any excitement seemed like fun.

Up the embankment by the bridge
where tracks ran straight for several miles,
we kept down low and out of sight
of the Nine Elms signal man.
Hidden by scrub & buddleia
we inched our way close to the tracks
where distance shimmered in the heat.

“I’ve only ever tried with two,”
our new friend said — but we were three —
each with a penny to squash flat
beneath a hundred wheels of steel.
But what if three was one too much —
causing the train to jump the track?
At ten we were too curious
to worry much about that stuff.
So, one by one, we inched our way
from cover to the railway tracks —
three pennies shining in the sun,
together on the outside line.

We waited for what seemed an age
crushed deep into embankment grass
Until we heard the signal clang —
a green light for our down line train.
There was a singing from the track,
then it came rushing through the haze
a laden coal train from the north
towing a billow of black smoke.

Too late to change our minds and run,
we pressed our hearts into deep grass
as yards away the train charged passed,
crashing and screeching near our heads.
The earth shook with each passing truck
as time was torn by flying wheels,
then, suddenly, the noise was gone :
fading to a distant click.

Summer returned and insects buzzed.
Somehow the rest all seemed a blur :
stumbling up across the lines,
hunting amongst the ballast stones —
the red faced, shouting signal man —
racing across four sets of tracks
and laughing all the way back home.

WHITE POPLAR

Way, way before the Marvel crew found fame,
true super-heroes, fabled sons of Gods,
left signs on Earth of how they made their names —
appeared in verse composed by Hesiod.
Hercules wore a wreath of poplar leaves
to snatch away from Hades Cerberus,
his garland, white from sweat, so we believe —
his battle with that dog was vigorous.

White poplar now wears leaves with one side green,
their underside of white in winds will show
like the wreath of the hero of our dreams,
fresh from his labours, many years ago.

Breeze in white poplar whispers down the lane :
soft sounds from canopy like ghosts or rain...

Hesiod, poet, contemporary of Homer.

AFTER THE FALL

Corpocracy’s graffitied world
(where everyone is ruled by screens) —
built from our cheerless yesterdays
when troglodytes raged at machines.

Trying to change our point of view
we had to turn the ‘scope around,
abandon dogma, party line
and look across to higher ground.

But will the coming dawn reveal
incumbents who will ride roughshod
across the afterwards we’d planned,
grinding to dust our household gods?

How dark would be our future then? —
Books to the fire or left unread,
while A I would produce all art —
a place where angels fear to tread.

Towan From The Stubble Field (Roseland, Cornwall)   -  Ben Taffinder

 AUGUST

Fat blackberries had caught the starlings’ eyes
and soon the walls and cars bore purple stains;
dark elderberries, hung beneath clear skies,
will swell with night-time’s gentle showers of rain.

The combines are out harvesting the fields —
a golden stubble greets the setting sun;
the farmer is delighted with his yield,
returning geese are pleased when job is done.
First windfalls in the grass beneath mossed trees
as hazelnuts are plumping on the bough;
while on the quiet air the drone of bees
and, in the distance, gently lowing cows.

These are the sights and sounds that end this day —
with season’s fullness, August slips away.

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