The Watcher and The Rain

While the rain turned roads into mirrors

I saw you standing lonely there;

Your face so pale and empty,

dull beads of raindrops in your hair.

You looked both lost and lovely,

Your eyes wide and forlorn.

Endlessly searching for someone

with eyes seeming only to mourn.

For whom were you searching that evening?

Was it a lover you so longed to meet?

Had he said he’d be there that hour

to hold and to kiss on the street?

I could have moved closer to greet you,

I could have said “Look, here I am.

like you I am alone in the greyness,

lost and alone, just a man.

You have been forsaken this evening.

He lies with another, not you.

I have no-one to hold or to worship

but you and I shall love and be true.”

But I watched as you tightened your raincoat

and I stood like a thing carved from stone

as you walked sadly into the darkness.

I sighed and I went home alone.

The Parting In The Storm

Dark was the day when love left me,

savage the sky hung above.

Rain dimmed my eyes like cold teardrops,

tears I withheld from your sport.

Wild was your hair in the west wind,

Bitter your gaze like the storm.

Swift steps away down the platform,

A glance you gave and then laughed.

Off in the storm went my longings,

Given to him and his love.

Love! Once only I knew it

when skies were so still and so calm.

But thunder seduced you, and you ran to the storm.

Becoming

 

I am a cloud blown on her ardent breeze,

torn and reformed in her shining sky.

I am a ripple born of the stone she throws,

spreading outwards as the murmurs die.

I am the flame on the blackening bough,

leaping from the fire that links our hearts.

I am the thunder in the angry clouds,

heard in the halls where her lightning darts.

I am the clay. But hers are the hands

that press and flex on the potter’s wheel.

The clay loves the hands that wound and mar

for without the potter, Form is not real – 

Love’s Being is Becoming’s End.

Worlds Away

 

There is a world that’s much like ours,

a world that’s like the one we know;

a land of sun and clouds and showers

a world of joy: a world of woe.

But in that land, we walk together

and in that land we are as one;

as one we face the bitter weather;

as one we feel the summer sun.

If this sad world with sad tomorrows

would but mix and meld and fray

and, fraying, take us far from sorrows

we’d be together: Worlds away.

Kite

 

Up where the air is clean and sharp,

up where the wind is sharp and keen

like a knife poised between the ribs,

and the sun flings bright spears of gold

downward toward the distant earth

he hangs upon impatient winds,

wings at rest, without a beat

to trouble the clear air’s calm.

He waits and watches the far fields,

questing for the still signs of death

so he can sweep silently down

and tear the cold flesh from dead bone,

then arrow-swift return skyward

to scale again bright hills of cloud

that rise proud from the sea of sky

until he can soar no higher.

And I, earthbound wretch, can but watch

his stately path through spheres of air

withheld from me and from my kind,

doomed to watch and sadly wonder

how it is to ride the wild winds

and look in pity on the works

of mere men, shrunk to nothing, from

his icy throne. Ah! I must turn

my eyes from his circling splendour

patrolling his unchallenged realm

and pull the cord that links my hands

to the whirling shape that just I

can command, a pitiful thing 

of wood and paper that soils his

name yet holds it in awe and praise:

My servant of the sky, my kite.

The Pool of Avarice

 

A storm-swept night on the bleak hillside,

The moon hides her face under tumbling clouds.

Slowly he walks through curtains of rain,

despair holds a heart once full of pride.

On through cold wind, on through cold rain,

that lash his face with whips of ice.

Still no sight of the grand old house

where dwell his kin who’ll end his pain.

He thinks on the face of his sobbing wife

who weeps for children who cry in the night.

He remembers their words as they beg for food,

eyes wide and wet as they cling to life.

Not far to go in this wild, angry night!

Just beyond the ridge, just past the wood

whose leafless branches thrash blind in the dark

except when pale beams of the moon’s pallid light

gleam weakly on stumps of twisted, dead trees.

And then he espies it, lit by the lightning,

huge and ornate, rising up squat like a toad.

A place of sweet wine, fat meats, laughter and ease.

They will help him, for blood calls to blood!

A knock on the door and succour will come!

The door opens wide and rich smells of excess

waft temptingly over his grime and his mud.

He speaks of his young ones, his sweet steadfast mate,

begs to his kindred for some crumbs from their store:

a crust, or a ham, a rabbit, a hen,

some hope, some help to turn back their fate.

But there is no invite, no gifts from their store.

Instead, there is laughter and cruelty and scorn

and a finger points mockingly into the night.

There is no salvation, just the slam of a door.

Tears streak the mud from his woebegone eyes

as he turns back to darkness, to storm and to night, 

back to the young ones, back to his wife

with nothing to give them to quiet their cries.

Back up the ridge with footsteps of lead,

he trudges, his belly burning with need.

What can he say to those who love him,

to those he watches as they beg to be fed?

Then there is thunder, though there is no light!

He turns to see the house of his kin shudder

and fall, fall into ruin, stone striking stone,

down into darkness where there only is night.

Then with a rush comes a thundering flood

covering the stones with a cold, turbid cloak,

hiding forever the dread house of his kin,

hiding their screams, their prayers, their blood.

Now only a pool shows where the house fell,

a pool dark and dismal where no bird can sing.

No more will those people laugh, mock and jest

at they who must live lives trapped helpless in Hell.

And our traveller? What was his fate?

What of his children and strong, faithful wife?

There were others who saw them, saw their sad plight

and came with kind offerings – and it was not too late.

The Hillfort Abides

 

High above the Severn Sea

broods an ancient Sentinel.

Swift centuries have hurried by

yet still it stands, clothed in wonder.

First the folk from forgotten lands

with copper axe and shield of bronze

stood upon the windswept height

and dared to face its fearsome thunder.

Then the Celts, so brave, so proud,

trod the ancient ridgeway paths,

built the ramparts, fought the foe.

And still it stands, clothed in wonder.

Romans came from a land of sun

with spear and sword to tame the hills.

They slew the druids on the stones

And dared to face their fearsome thunder.

And the Sentinel watched them all,

saw them live and watched them die.

Roman, Celt, like mist they fled.

And still it stands, clothed in wonder.

Then the Normans, haughty, fierce,

built upon the windswept hill.

A tower they raised to watch the land

and dared to face the fearsome thunder.

Colliers strove beneath the soil.

To warm a world they gave their blood.

Cold, aloof, the Sentinel watched.

And still it stands, clothed in wonder.

And you and I, we stand here now

and look upon the Severn Sea.

We think of all who went before

and dared to face the fearsome thunder.

And still it stands, clothed in wonder.

Ukraine

Under shell-shot skies

knowing their war is just

resolute men with rage-filled eyes

attack the foe as they know they must.

Indomitable in might,

Never yielding the fight,

Ever gloried, they fight for the right.

I Should Have Said

 

I should have said, “I love you”

when you turned to leave me;

I could have reached for you,

I could have called your name

when we parted at the station.

I will never forget that day.

I will never forget that day

when we parted at the station.

I could have called your name,

I could have reached for you

when you turned to leave me.

I should have said, “I love you.”

Answering The Call

Plates in the sink,

Pots still warm on the hob,

Scent of hot oil hangs in still air.

Chairs briskly pushed away from the table.

Boots that sat expectantly by the door are gone.

Through the window the sun was calling  ‘Come out, please come out!’

The two of them heard summer calling and gladly they heeded it!

Now they run in the welcoming fields, brushed with the touch of the friendly breeze,

Crowned with the soft thistledown, gilded with bright pollen, garlanded with butterflies.

The Coming Of Winter

 

Near to the ice of grim winter

I stand in a storm of dry leaves.

Summer’s hopes spill and splinter. 

The dying sun sobs as it grieves.

What lies ahead is cold sadness,

brought by the strong storms’ madness

that gloats on my shattered gladness

and smiles on the bones of dead trees.

Enshrouded hills are now sleeping

lost in soft miasmas of mist.

Trees bend in wild winds that are weeping

cold tears on fields where we kissed.

Grey are the fields where the hare leapt;

Still are the streams where the trout kept

watch on the flies which the surge swept

down to green depths for their tryst.

Now the sad snow comes whirling

white from the womb of the sky.

On panes frost ferns spread, uncurling

fronds that bid summer good-bye.

Lost are the dreams of those swift days

like stubble tossed high in the warm haze

in times when we laughed and gave praise

to the sun that blazed bright from on high.

There must be an end to our weeping

For surely this cannot be the end.

Beyond the snow, life will be keeping

its promise to make whole and mend.

Fair will be fields in their rebirth;

Seed will awake in the warm earth;

Joyful the town in its spring mirth.

And our kiss shall be sweeter, my friend.

The Hillfort Above The Severn Sea

Sun streams down from the blue bowl

On bracken and broken glass.

Older than age rise ramparts

that mutely hold memories.

Here lived those fierce, warlike men

that ruled with sword the soft plains

That hugged the sheltering sea.

From their windy battlements

No foe could creep in cunning 

stealth to catch the fertile kine

Or unload the golden grain

into heathen hands and mouths.

As watchful eagles stood those 

Lords with sword and axe upraised,

Ready to fight and die for 

the folk who farmed below.

Now their walls are grass and dust.

Where trod the mailed feet of men

Dully graze the silent sheep

on grass sprung from heroes’ blood,

And deeds that faintly call from 

pale shadows, soon forgotten

HAIKU 3

 Spring Awakening

Soft, sweet rain has passed.

Showers scorned, we scan the soil.

Green growth soothes our eyes.

HAIKU 2

 

Return to the Coast

The car door slams shut.

We collect bags and towels.

Cold sea welcomes us.

This Word Is...

 

This word tastes like ashes.

It sounds like the north wind.

The smell of this word is slime.

It feels like razors.

Its shape is serrated.

HAIKU 1

 Rebirth

 

Grim slag on bare hill,

Soft shoots begin to open.

Nature paints out grey

Chronos

Bright her face upon that day and

light the touch of silken hair, like

mist in May, when first we met and

kissed in flowered fields and swore that

we would snare the sun and keep him tame.

See how dark and dry these days drag

out. We sit and sneer at our Love’s

rout with hate that gnaws in guile and

lies. Ah, ash in veins and dust in

eyes – all embers now where once was flame.

The Crag

HIGH ON A TOR ON A COLD HEATHER MOOR
STANDS A LONELY WIND-BITTEN CRAG
AND IT SEEMS TO SPEAK WHEN COLD BLIZZARDS SHRIEK
AND LEAFLESS WOODS MOAN LIKE A HAG.

* * * 

As I stood there alone with my hand against stone

and the tears of the wind on my face,

I wondered if stone recalled ages unknown

when life first blossomed out from its base.

In the swirl of the rain, a voice spoke in my brain,

a voice deep and lonely but strong:

"If I could but forget the long pain and regret,

the foul horror of Life's endless wrong.

"For my thoughts can still find the long path left behind

That leads from the light to the gloom,

from the day of the dawn in cataclysmic morn

when the seed gave forth its bright bloom.

"From the cold sands of space, by the Weak Force's grace,

mixed the dust and detritus of stars.

Grain piled on grain in a chill, soundless rain,

glued by static and enshrouded in tars.

"Stone smashed on stone and world hurled on world,

till the rocks crazed and shattered and flowed;

and blazing I came from a placenta of flame

to a shore swept by rivers that glowed.

"Those dim ages flew by like swift clouds from on high

as the land cooled, and then fell the first rain;

and the soil drank the dew and it yielded anew

the first streams that now fed the first main.

"Yes, how still were those days in the sweet lightning's blaze

as the waves swept the yet steaming shore.

But then came the day (nevermore, now I pray!)

when there was movement where none was before.

"A faint globule of gel that squirmed in the swell

I saw in the waters that hour.

As the aeons flashed by under the comet-strewn sky

More came and divided in power.

"On the cold ocean's floor; near the volcano's red maw; 

In the deep and the heights and the skies

swarmed the things from that seed, that slew in their greed,

for warm flesh and sweet blood was their prize.

"The pollution of pain from the nucleotide chain

spilt over my stone like a tear.

If I could but sleep! If my rock could but weep!

for I heard your faint footfall pass near.

"For you are the bloom from that root sunk in gloom; 

the dark blight which crawled from that pool.

Your lips prate of law but your hands swim in gore

and the axe! Was it not your first tool!

"You smash flesh with steel: wounds never to heal;

your children you feed to the fire.

Though some lisp of God, where your armies have trod

Shards of hope still hang wet on the wire.

"All life feeds on death and blood is your breath 

- but the forces of night are now massed.

Soon the ape and its lust will yield to the dust

- Lo! Time's javelin already is cast!

"Swept like chalk from the board while the cold stars applaud

your day and its darkness are passed.

A cloak of new fire is your funeral pyre

and the world will grow quiet at last."

I ran from that height with my mind wrapped in night,

every step seemed to drown me in mud.

Was that dread judgement true? Or will we rise anew

and forget our beginnings in blood?

Many years have now gone yet my doubts linger on

and they come and they mock me at night.

Does the stain run too deep? is there no faith to keep

with the slaughtered now gone from the light?

It is still not too late! Let love replace hate -

still are there ploughshares to mould.

Let us turn from the sword and cut the strong cord

which ... Ah, but I, and you too,  - we grow old.

* * * 

HIGH ON A TOR IN THE CRATER'S DEEP MAW

STANDS A LONELY, BLAST-SHATTERED CRAG

AND IT SEEMS TO SPEAK  WHEN THE FURNACE-WINDS SHRIEK

AND LIFE'S ASHES WHIRL BLACK FROM THE SLAG.

My Muse Of The Soft Brown Hair

How I wish that I were there

where laughter reigns through dark and light

with my muse of the soft brown hair.

Long are the kisses we would share

in torrid day or star strewn night.

Oh, how I wish that I were there!

Rich are the joys for those who’d dare

to spread their wings in love’s swift flight

with my muse of the soft brown hair.

Her smile can make the storm seem fair;

Her lips bring joy that’s lightening bright.

Oh, how I wish that I were there!

In life’s grey paths of aching care

my thoughts soar skyward, height on height

with my muse of the soft brown hair.

Grey are these days with dark despair

and pains that grow like a creeping blight.

Oh, how I wish that I were there

With my muse of the soft brown hair!

The Lovers' Calendar

I kissed her lips on that frost-rimmed day
when the lake lay still in an ice bound sleep.
Cold were her lips but promising fire
as the snowdrop brings hope of bright roses.

I kissed her lips on that sun-swept day
while young clouds moved slow on paths of blue.
How soft were those lips and warmed by love
as her face met mine in a butterfly touch.

I kissed her lips on that autumn day
as dead leaves swept by in a dance of red.
How sweet those lips in the chastening wind,
stilling false fears in the day’s drear dusk.

I kissed her lips in that storm’s grim heart
while ragged clouds closed the sun’s pale eye.
A swift year has passed into remembrance.

But each stored kiss shall hasten the spring.