Sunday 22 March 2020

Estuary Thoughts

There was the wolf
Sitting beside me,
My fingers warm
In the fur at his neck.
We sat in silence
On the estuary bank.
The teasing smell of seaweed,
And sweet mud, in our nostrils.
With water moving
Gently below us.
And all the pain,
All the fear,
All the loneliness,
Went drifting on the breeze,
As the tide turned.
And the river,
That mighty father/mother
Of the valley,
Carried water
Of the Welsh hills,
Down to a forgiving sea.

Monday 26 November 2018

Shadow Land

A wolf walked with me once.
Or did I walk with him?
I know he set the pace.
We padded softly
Through a shadow land.
He knew me then,
Watching with gentle eyes.
And when we heard the drum,
We'd dance.
And we would run,
My heart beating fast,
Me, gasping for breath.
Until we came one day
Into a glade of light.
And there he left me.
 

Optimism

The fruit is eaten,
The commitment made.
The seed is planted
In cool earth;
A gentle womb in which
To rest the winter through.
And then, first stirrings;
Cell by cell awakening,
Slowly, but quickening,
Bursting,
Into a world unready,
Tender, fragile,
But full of optimism.

Monday 19 November 2018

In Earth

Rock
Water
Cleansing
Corroding
Re-forming  


Light
Power
Warmth
Sunshine
Energizing


Leaf
Tree
Strength
Rooted
In earth

Monday 8 October 2018

Scribbling on trains

How many poets are there writing on commuter trains?
Does every carriage contain someone?
Are they scribbling in a notebook?
Or tapping their phone?
Each one reflecting on their own view reality.
While the world is too busy to look.
But each one wants to share something,
And sometimes someone peers over another's shoulder.
And wonders!
Meanwhile each one adopts the rules
Specific to writing on trains,
Pretending not to want attention.

Friday 25 May 2018

Sunlight confounds my cat

Sunlight confounds my cat.
Warm in one spot she loves
She lounges and then sleeps.
The sunbeam,
As sunbeams always must,
Moves on.
The lovely source of warmth
Has gone,
The world has turned
And Socky wakes
To stretch a leg
And lick her belly.
Then, with resignation, she adjusts,
Finds the new pool of yellow light,
And sleeps again.



Wednesday 18 April 2018

Roses, roses, all the way

Thus, the rose,
Is rose red.
Not pink.
No, never pink.
I'm not a pink.
Oh, why not pink?
Is pink too girly?
Probably!
I don't do pink.
I do red, though.
The reddest red.
Passion,
Even though
All passion's spent.
A dusty red?
Perhaps,
A little like
Dried blood?
Oh, no,
More like an old red rose.
Yes, that's me.