Almost a Night – Mare

 

We used to walk, that lass and I

past the ruins where

a light shone sometimes

on nights when the moon

would shriek with glee

at our thin bravery.

 

“There's a bogle in yon castle!“

my mum would say,

“Your aunt Mary saw it

and got a turn in her eye.“

And we'd hope for a glimpse

of the beautiful horse

with the brains of a brush

who ate nothing but stones.

 

And the girl she was lovely

but I've long lost her name.

She's now gone and the horse ,

but the bogle's still there

for a light sometimes twinkles

when lovers go by.

Autumn Sky

 

No Poem

Birds of Bonetree Hill

 

They eye me as estranged friends

distanced by caution and memories of slaughter

but I read too much I know in their baleful looks.

Each season I search sore eyed

for their flight from God knows where,

in vacant skies above Bone Tree Hill.

I yearn for their unfriendly looks

more than their silent absence.

 

And they will come feathered in stories untold,

beak chattering tales of dimension unknown

which will smile my face,

chance meetings hinted with long dead beasts

which will shake my head,

innuendo of answers in web footed waddle

which will squint my eye

and make me wish they would call me by name.

 

Call me to join dreamscapes in the clouds,

call me to join their coded speech,

their timeless reverence for shared succession ,

hinged connection to life's rhythm ...

Call me to belong.

Dream of Muriel

 

No Poem

Fool and White Crow

 

No Poem

Hill Folk (The Grass Cutters)

 

Up here where the copper eagle

softly whistles.

Where the sky can lightly

brush my shoulders

and the dalesmen

are all left below

I find the place to sigh.

 

My life's days

I fasten to this spot

where the river starts

and falls,

remembering always

its true home

and dreams also soar

unwilling to forget.

 

With my neighbours the clouds

who yield to these whims

I am oddly apart

and yet part of...

In this home of gods

I find the place to sigh.

The Very Last

 

There should be a ceremony of course

for every one that falls from the tree.

One moment part of a vibrant community

the next, pell mell twirling to a desolation

on the browning grass.

 

A twenty one gun salute for every leaf

disconnected and gyrating.

A few pious words perhaps

for the end of each pilgrimage

glasses of sherry and knowing nods.

 

And what of the very last one ?

Clinging to the black branch

'till winter's bite severs its grasp.

There should be books written...surely

There should be a parade !

Man and Nature

 

I will walk through the woods

and not build a thing

to the lagoon

where the kingfisher dives

 

And the ivy can cling

to the wall of my home

and the weeds

can brighten my driveway.

 

Like two beasts in a cave

we will lie down together

or they'll find us

with death in our eye.

 

No more to squabble

with sibling nature

for her roots will grow

'round my bones.

 

So she can build

her nest in my chimney

and I will sing

to the sound of her sea.

'Fool's Paradise' (series)

 

Dream of Reynard

The Quest

 

Polished smooth by rough hands

is it now darkly waiting

below a foreign chapel

guarded by ignorance

and a large deathless beast ?

 

Fashioned by the Eastern man

is the quest still worth the risks ?

If the answer lies within us

is the journey just the song

to the tune that's always been there

...and yet we must go on.

'Fool's Paradise' (series)

 

Party Animals

The Quest

 

Polished smooth by rough hands

is it now darkly waiting

below a foreign chapel

guarded by ignorance

and a large deathless beast ?

 

Fashioned by the Eastern man

is the quest still worth the risks ?

If the answer lies within us

is the journey just the song

to the tune that's always been there

...and yet we must go on.

Saturday Night

 

Don't we dance divinely

with the music in our bones

Suns and moons and distant stars

are nodding.

Someday when the sand has run

this moment will be snagged

held tight in cosmic memory

by our will to step in tune.

Scattered Thoughts

 

They are small silvery ,slippery fish

and they dance around my outstretched hand

and when I think I hold them tight

they explode from my fingers with reckless intent.

They are my thoughts but they're barely mine

as they exit the mind in treacherous flight

like scurrying rats from the drowning boat

or panicked fleas from the dead rat's hide.

 

They belong to the world and they spurn control

as their kin they seek out in the swirl around my life.

But I own them like water, or sunshine, or death

so they come uninvited, and visit, then leave.

 

I tend them and nurture and despise and despair,

smile at their antics as they catch me unaware.

Wrestle, defend them and share them with friends

and discard them like petals

on the ground beneath the rose.

She Glides

 

She moves in the depths of the green black leaves

scattering bright winged insects

from their dew drink flowers.

No place for the morning's boisterous heat

down here as her cool body glides,

a rivulet of thaw water on window pane.

 

She is gone from me as we all know she must

leaving the city to the broken eyed men

damning and dashing their topical hopes.

Watched by a bird of mysterious origins

into the waters of quiet acceptance

she stretches an exquisite testing toe.

Sitting by the Standing Stones

 

Sitting where the ancients sat

pondering stars

and unnamed gods

running fingers over stone .

Looking for a hand hold

in history's brail.