About Me

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I am a great admirer of English poetry from the time of Chaucer up until the middle of the twentieth century when it appeared to lose its way. I love all aspects of this planet but are sometimes sad when I think of what we are doing to it.

Monday, 8 November 2021

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.”


Sunday, 7 November 2021

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.


Thursday, 4 November 2021

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.


Tuesday, 1 June 2021

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


Tuesday, 22 December 2020

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.


Monday, 21 December 2020

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.