Getting ready for the workshop

Trying to finish the last tasks before heading off to take part in the ACEEPT workshop next week. We needed a bit of encouragement, so of course I volunteered to play the clown for a few moments.

A Rhyme

Coast

Hawthorned dunes. Withering ferns.
Taste of salt-speckled wind
and the blood of rusty winches.
Trees leaning East, abraded,
veterans of a tug war. Beach rose
flaunting endless successively
ripening victories, an invasion welling over
the edge of the land, to the heart beat
of the church bell proudly still standing.

Hare one moment. Gone the next. Ears
bobbling over the path, and under the orange
burning bush against the lead of the sky.

Then.

Down the right corner of my
sanded eyes – a pheasant!
Helicopter of sound, away,
then sideways. Stuttering my mind.
Pulse like turn of tide. Breathless.
Then another! Dull dragonfly
against a painful yellow backdrop.
The house.

As I gather my sensitivities,
regain cosmopolitan clarity,
proceding with caution
up a small flight of winded steps
– another attack of flack and flutter
as the third one passes close
before diving away from on-marching
invasions of my boots.

September

Fungi, falling leaves,
floating among swans.
Fruit, fatalities,
forever fall.

Frozen feast of flaming
fractals. Free.
Flailing, forged in disbelief.
Forgetful. Flawed.

Shades of grey, strands of age,
bones sighing in the dim light of morning.
Shush, don’t tell death
how I am shamelessly soaking in life.

Can we

How would you feel

if we went back

to when the cold dew

in the long grass

gave you a stabbing cramp

in your ankles

just like too-cold water

and fear do?

How would you feel

if we returned slowly

to a time when the hay-like

heyday of fresh linen sheets

like the flat iron heating

the sunkissed skin and

the book shelves

all reminded us of

tea with milk

and buns hot out of the oven?

Can we go there this Sunday

barefeet and bored

pretending to be in heaven,

like good little angels

staying in bed all day with the rain

running down the windows

making us feel like goldfish inside

an aquarium. Can we?

If I tug on your sleeve like an impatient

bad-mannered, hopelessly romantic

child, please, can we go back?

I remember I had a parrot then, too.

Moving Coastline

The Crescent Anchor

Along the rugged line of sand

the black teeth of the groynes

protrude, and guard the strip of land.

A pirate smiles, purloins…

The cliff is frowning at the sea,

the taste of salty tears

the church, the anchor, cannot flee

– it won’t be many years

until the graves they made on land

– with lichen-covered stones they stand –

will join the crushing waves that ate

the ones of lesser fate.

 

A poem

Promegranates

Pomegranate

Thistle-haired and hungry
as your gnarled hand clasps
clenches, chokes the change.

Clouds tear in staccato time-lapse,
well up and whip down,
second, season, century, shame.
Short moments.
Cobwebs.

After the bursting of your eyes,
sweet pomegranates.

Prying into the despair
of wounds healing,
time frozen
like a face in ice.

Thistle-haired
we part with the purple.
Heather. Rose-

mary.
The bread.
The word.
And the wine.

A poem

Stubbornly oblivious to the decaying earth
the sky is practising a display of blue and fluff
beyond the red tiles, the green of the tree tops
clings to the horizon, lighter with each leaf
each acorn they drop until
the transparency of their swaying meditation
lets the rhythm of their breath
be the rhythm of the wind
and the translucency of a canopy
harbours the shade of a memory
while all things reach, while falling,
for a last frail second of suspence
before mellowing, moulding, merging
with the ground while there is still time
before the great sleep, the grating, grinding pause
of plausible applause and pinpointed pining of firs…

Today, the blue sky is already a memory.
Yesterday, it was a omen.

In 6 months, nothing is left but a rough sketch
in coal, snow and canvas – of a snowdrop
against a homecoming colour
quite like this.