This poem was written on an early autumn walk, with hundreds of dewdropped spider webs festooning the briars
.
Dewdropped
Lace in space
Squadrons of magic carpets
Planing the tangled briars’
Lax galaxy
Daydawning
This poem was written on an early autumn walk, with hundreds of dewdropped spider webs festooning the briars
.
Dewdropped
Lace in space
Squadrons of magic carpets
Planing the tangled briars’
Lax galaxy
Daydawning
We meet –
Eyes walled, tongues tied, hands bound.
Is warm, crusty bread on offer this morning?
Again we will chose the safer stone.
A glance, a word, a touch,
And the table would be spread.
They speak dollar
(For ‘black’ read ‘no’)
And the fundamentalist fringe
Has broadened to the centre.
There’s opportunity
For all (spelt ‘some’).
Here the surreal is for real
And Nostalgiasaurus – Rex!
Tall cliffs towering
Greensward gleaming
Orchids flowering
Streamlets streaming.
High sun ruling
Blue skies blowing
Dolphins schooling
Blue seas flowing.
Seals cavorting
Gannets stooping
Jackdaws courting
Swallows swooping.
Waves uncurling
Pebbles hissing
Ebb-tide swirling
I am missing
You.
A hand held out, that on its palm
The sun and sea may dance
Their shimmering pas de deux.
They leap – a jewelled filigree
Hangs sparkling on the sky-blue air.
They run – and every pool’s awash
And every crevice filled with sun-drenched joy.
Pink Thrift and white Sea Campion
Pack out the greensward-carpeted
And stoney-seated stalls;
While from the wings and galleries
The Kittiwakes their screaming,
Caves their thundrous, plaudits raise.
A simple place – where
Warmed by sun and love,
As on a mother’s lap, aproned with flowers,
I sit;
Lulled by the soft songs of summer.
And all around me
Kentish air is quick with scented sounds
Whispering all that England was
And all I hope ’twill be
Here laughter and good fellowship
Grow easy with the Hazel, hip and haw.
Good food is on the plate,
Thankfulness in the heart.
Here sleep is rest
And waking – more.
Fetch me across the Haven’s race
From all that’s false and fanciful and new.
A lover seeking only love’s embrace,
I hear again the call, and come to you.
My feet set down on silver sand
By wind and wave compiled, warmed by the sun;
As though from town and city I had spanned
The seas, and found an isle by coral spun.
Beyond, where lie the dunes, each blade
Of grass whispers my name. A lizard darts
With news that I have come, while in the glade
Sweet Gale to do the same, her scent imparts.
To the land-locked Little Sea I walk
Through Jungle where the Royal Fern holds sway.
Great Water Docks the dark-eyed marsh-pools stalk;
None but the tried and loyal pass this way!
So to the high-skied heath, and tracks
That hum and chirp with insect industry.
Setting alight the heather’s tinder-packs,
The Gorse displays its Incan finery.
The sun goes down at Arish Mell,
Blessing with dusk a land where Curlews call.
Now bats, all soundless, weave an evening spell,
And sleep, with gentle hand, enfolds us all.
The stir of Hazel leaves within
The copse opens the thrushes eye and then
His throat. The daystar fades as dawn wears thin
The mists that shroud and hush the world of men.
Then upward past the Agglestone –
A gift from space – an asteroidal crumb?
Or did some vasty giant, like a bone,
Gouge it from Earth’s carcass with his thumb?
I only know, it now marks out
The path to where, athwart the Isle, are thrown
Two ridges that, like a mother’s arms about
Her sleeping child, will guard and keep their own.
Only on these green, sun-blown hills
Does my heart ever sing its native song.
Here sorrows ease and all my being stills;
Here, where the summer lingers, I belong.
And, where I climb Nine Barrow Down,
The Painted Lady sips the Harebell’s cup;
And purple Thyme diffuses fragrance round
Luring the Lark who dips and rises up –
Up to the crest and widest blue
Where I may gaze and gaze from sea to sea
Nor ever rest my eye on any view
That does not fill with praise the soul of me.
So must the Island soon beguile
My feet to thread their way to Purbeck’s edge.
And gladly I’ll be drawn to rest awhile
At Winspit, Brandy Bay or Dancing Ledge.
Here, graven in the rocks, is scored
The music of the ages, line by line,
And breakers, breaking, sound the ancient chord
That tells of life’s beginnings and of mine.
Liege-lordly stand the towering cliffs
While vassal seas their foaming tribute pay.
Nor would my hand withhold its gift,
For I am more at home, more loved than they.
By road, by market,
Where the olive grows,
The dolls-house shrine
Makes weak faith firmer,
Glistening white.
Yet tis the dark it
Hoards; and, homely, knows
Things fade when shines
The untempered summer
Sun too bright.
With room to park, it
Focuses. All know
Its mysteries and sign
The cross, and murmur
In their plight;
Touching the ark that
Covenants to those
Who bread and wine
Revere, succour
In the night.
Where life is stark, its
Symbols and those
Painted saints combine,
Wisely, to colour
Faith with – just a little –
Sight.