Voices

On this day of silence
it seems that there are voices
never heard - not now, not ever.

Blessed, if it be that,
with a quiet gift
to fashion words
that sometimes move,
I ask the question:
who will hear my voice?
And will it matter?

On this remembering day
no need for words
when silence speaks
with eloquence, with passion,
and such dignity.

Yet listen.  Voices can be heard –
the many million
senseless voices
lost in catastrophic conflict:
a massed lament for humankind.

We humans, all, we have a voice,
but one most often numbed.
And so this quiet gift
may have a place
in speaking, sighing
and, yes, sobbing about this
universal silence: the pity and the pain,
and the still unspoken word
of voices never heard.


November 11, 2015

Flowers in Paris

They too will perish,

The floods of flowers placed

in furious remembrance

of that Friday night. 

In Paris, of all places.

No flowers can restore

the fleeting carefree moments

before the onslaught

of that Friday night.

In Paris. 

No flowers, for all their fragrance,

will repair the devastation,

lethally delivered moments later

on that Friday night.

In Paris.

For all their fragile beauty, flowers

will never heal the savage wounds

so fearfully inflicted

on that Friday night.

In Paris.

Yet though they’ll fade and die,

these flowers will defy,

and then destroy the futile killers

of that Friday night.

In Paris.

These gathered flowers

give strength and power

Saying all that need be said

About that Friday night.

In Paris, of all places.

On track at Fallódon

The train on its iron track 

cuts straight and like a knife

through Fallódon.

The frequent sound of speed, of pace

disturbs the peace, but not the place,

with all its heritage.

The passengers on board 

travel in a faster, quicker world 

far from Fallódon’s fields,

not noticing the landscape,

                                 or the distant yet adjacent sea.

City-bound, they journey - unstudied

by the patient, waiting cars 

held at the level crossing

where once life halted at the station 

built for the Fallódon Estate.

Those days have gone

but life today goes on 

around the long, straight track:

cattle, sheep and crops, and woodland too,

play out a pattern not much changed

since the founding of Fallódon.

These sometimes famous trains 

provide a link - to other lands 

and peoples, and to other times.  

The modern Flying Scotsman,

hurtling through Fallódon,

tells of other means of locomotion:

electrified, no longer powered 

by steam or even diesel.

The thrust of power means little.

Speeding north or south,

whether to times gone by, or times to come.

Here at Fallódon, or at a place

with any other name,

the track we’re on, our journey -

and our destination – is the same.

Croquet's ending

It is fitting
on this autumnal day
of melancholy sun and poetry
that I take up the croquet hoops.

     Once more.

For a day or two
they leave a clear impression,
seen and felt,
but they leave and weave
a longer, lingering mark.

     Once more.

I look forward now
in the hope of my old age
to at least one further summer
with its white hoops 
and coloured balls,
struck like perfect percussion
on the rich green grass
in sunlit spells of purest harmony.

     Once more.

And I look backward too –
beyond my owning years –
to more than a hundred
summer endings,
framed by these white hoops,
now taken up.

And I try to capture
these moments every year:
sometimes of satisfaction,
sometimes of sorrow.

Yet for all the pleasure – 
and the privilege –
of croquet lawns,
these sad, still moments
reverberate, each year an echo.
A soft and gentle song
of  transience.

     Singing once more.


October 15th - National Poetry Day 2015
The croquet hoops pictured and described, and which I inherited, date from around 1913

STOP WATCH

Quartz movement.  
It doesn’t matter
how you make 
or measure minutes.

Half an hour
could seem eternity,
or nothing.  A void.
Eighteen hundred seconds
could have been the longest, fateful wait
for those still at the boarding gate.

It was three hours
more before the crew,
then passengers, knew
the flight would end in flowers.

Quartz movement still
on the watch face.  Going on, 
when hope, but not the watch,
has stopped.


1990s
revised February 2015

The Phone Box

In the lazy parlance of today
they would be called iconic,
these red, and now redundant,
boxes once peppering
our towns and landscapes 

Within a hundred years
they came and went,
to house the phones
that had no home,
or bring a calling
home again.

Designed by Giles Gilbert Scott,
back in the 1920s, 
they spread the word
throughout the land, not
in mere hundreds 
but many tens of thousands.
They even travelled 
overseas, foretelling
another kind of messaging
as the millennium drew near.

Red, and somewhat self-important,
they grew collectable
in their ageing obsolescence,
gracing, or disgracing
(some would say)
many a moneyed mansion,
and even much more modest homes.

Now, as we become more mobile,
we’d be foolish to forget
the part they played
in so many million lives,
coined to carry news:
of love, and life, and death;
of laughter or despair.
A living part - not gone away,
just gone elsewhere.

Like modern standing stones,
these bright red boxes stay,
treasured reminders
of another age, another way.

FORGOTTEN FLAGS

Thunder threatens, but gently;
the summer night is warm,
and wet from recent rain.
Months have passed
since the cold midwinter days
around Twelfth Night:
the watershed that bids farewell
to Christmas and its colour,
or some would say its artifice.

And the bunting now has faded,
hung wearily across the street;
forgotten for the moment
on this balmy summer night.

The flags, all drained of colour,
barely flutter.
They are no longer noticed,
nor now needed.
Their time may come again
in the continuing cycle
of so-called celebration that
measures out our year.
For now though, come - and gone.

These frail flags are jaded.
The public hanging tells its tale.
Bunting, even faded,
makes its mark,
and leaves a forlorn trail.


February 18th 2015

FOUND

By a gate, on the ground, it lay,
damp and somewhat dirty,
dropped or discarded,
a child’s soft toy, an animal of sorts,
and of uncertain species.

A creature once of comfort,
a bedtime companion,
calming and cooling,
helping to close another day
of adventure, fun and finding,
or even occasional fears,
and frights.

But now, lost
in a moment of distraction,
and – come bedtime – a moment
of disturbance and distress.
A battle then between
tiredness and tears.

Soon, however,
sleep draws a gentle curtain,
and soft dreams erase:
soothing, then refreshing,
painting the dark sky
bright again, bringing
a sweet forgetting.

Come morning
and the child’s soft toy
is just a memory, no more:
lying by a gate, on the ground.
and now, through these words,
found.


13 January 2015

Crossing our path

Here, and almost everywhere
along the well-worn coast path
there are everyday encounters
as we stand aside
for one another,
greeting and acknowledging
our friendly fellow-walkers.

It is but brief, the contact,
with those who cross our path.
The sharing shapes the moment
and protects, preserves those seconds,
sometimes minutes, that we engage
in undirected and unfettered
conversation.

The words exchanged
can open windows,
most of which will close again
as memory subsides.
Some windows though
have wider vistas
and the brief encounter
becomes a channel
for recollection and reward.

There rarely is a sequel.
It is not needed.
Such treasure-seeded moments,
now and then,
are in themselves enough.

TWO STONE LIONS

They sit, quite statuesque,

atop the gateposts,

these two stone lions.

Quite unmoved.

Impassive, some would say;

impressive even, as intended,

roaring such volumes

about their owners.

Hunted in pairs

in deepest garden centres,

they then adorn the entrance

to less than stately homes,

entrance the owners

and keep their counsel

when visitors approach,

who seek permission to pass

through the wrought iron gates.

Unless of course they know the code

which will allow rare access

to the treasured, prized

and hidden home,

so carefully landscaped 

to confer a special status

on the residents.

The two stone lions

do not confer,

but still stare out.

They say nothing.

Their very presence

says it all.

05 February 2015

The lost ring

Without a beginning or an end
it is a token, I suppose,
of infinity, if not eternity.
Pure gold,
yet merely metal,
and - the other day -
so very nearly scrap.

Since I came of age,
always to hand,
there on my little finger
holding, reassuring
and confirming
a heritage of sorts.

A signet ring, a crest,
well worn, and age-worn now.
Marked, but hallmarked,
finely engraved as well
with an owl - for wisdom –
and the word Petræa
signifying rock.
Or strength perhaps.

A ring of gold,
no longer used for sealing,
or even making an impression –
a replica of my father’s ring
and – for all I know –
many grandfathers’ before him.

The crest a pledge,
or plea, for strength
and wisdom.

And so a treasured thing, this ring.
And then,
in an absent moment,
allowed to slip off silently
and go to ground.

The panic when I found
it gone, this ounce or two
of precious metal.
And then, with steps retraced,
the elation and relief
when once again I found
my band of gold.
Lying with almost worthless metal
in the recycling bin,
waiting for collection
and – like us, if we admit it -
ultimate oblivion.

The loss, and then the finding,
signifying nothing,
or maybe everything.
And just a glint of meaning.

Sunset in West Cork

Late summer, 
with the watercoloured landscape
swept clean with warm, 
and mostly welcome, winds.
The rain demurs,
even allowing striking,
sometimes dazzling,
shards of sunlight
in preparation for the golden glory
of West Cork’s setting sun.

At this September time 
the setting is more precious,
stolen it seems from
the slowly lengthening nights.
Reluctant, as well,
to flaunt its fabled colours
for a longer, or more magic, spell.

And then the glory goes:
gently, gracefully 
beyond the skyline.
Sighing softly
out of sight, and light,
but never out of mind.

The Mill Race

Here, at Brunton Burn,
the water sounds
from every quarter.

No matter where,
inside or out,
the sound of water wins.
Refreshing and restoring,
with its liquid, laughing music,
the life around.
Channelling its charms
through greens
and browns and gold, 
cascading over silver stones:
a magic fall of water
forever feeding
the long forgotten 
mill race.

In this special place,
with its crystal waterfall,
the wheel may now be still, 
and can no longer turn,
yet the harmony remains at Brunton Burn –
a never-ending, everlasting
water call.

Waiting for burial

At first glance
it could just be driftwood,
but look again
for a second
and you may chance
to see the shape
of prow and stern
protruding from the mud.

Once this was a living,
sailing by day and even night
from the sheltering Suffolk waters
of the River Deben;
questing for sea food,
looking for a livelihood,
fishing for a future,
to generate provision
for another generation. 

The boat now buried
was big and bold, and strong enough
to house a crew of several men
and then bring in
rich harvests from the sea.
A boat and booty prized
through many years.

Until….until the boat began to tire
and the booty to decline
as age advanced 
to take its toll.

Then moored more often
than taken fishing
as the soulless sea, for all its prizes,
ran its gauntlet, and the boat
at last cast anchor.

And so the once proud boat
is now marooned, not moored;
not cast adrift,
but rather cast aground.

As time, and tide, go on
in the suffocating waters
of the River Deben,
the boat’s bereft,
with the anchor almost all that’s left.

Lighting the fire

These days, it is for warmth and comfort
that we light the fire.
No longer a necessity,
not a daily need.

In years gone by, it was.
In years gone by, so many fires were lit:
not all for warmth and comfort.

Now come of age, in this new century,
the preparation is a hallowed
morning sequel to a cosy evening, passed
with pleasure, maybe days ago.

Yet we recall the laying, 
the morning after.  Sweeping first,
the dust and ashes, prompting thoughts
of future dust and ashes.

These days, we vacuum-clean the hearth,
until all dust has gone, 
and the empty grate awaits
its charge.

First, foremost, and unfolded -
to form crumpled printed flowers -
are the papers.  Newspapers
no longer bearing news, though sometimes,
as you see in such easy moments of distraction,
offering forecasts which the future, passed,
has mocked or praised.

These paper flowers 
now lie prepared for kindling, culled from logs
precisely cut with accurate axe, 
or purchased, packaged,
at a price.

Either way, the firewood makes a bed
for longer, larger, wider logs
which will give out the warmth
we want in winter.
And so the moment comes
for firelight, matched
magically by the slenderest
of tiny phosphor-coated sticks.

The striking thing
is how the paper, logs and kindling laid
catch light, and how the flame
takes hold, made
brighter, lighter, stronger
as the fire burns.

These days, the flames bring warmth
and comfort
as we watch in wonder.
Yet in watching
and in wondering,
our thoughts might wander
to the other man-made fires
that mark and mar,
and scar our past.

Those days, it was not for comfort
that the stakes were raised
and the fire prepared.
It was not then for warmth 
that those fearsome fires were lit.

The necessity then was
something else.
The daily need 
a dreadful deed.

And now, and still, the pall
appals, as we hide, 
these days,
in cosy warmth and comfort.

Brushing aside
our cindered, ashen past.


October 2013

Caerwenfor

Close to the house with the grass roof

on the Ceredigion coast

there is a burial mound.

Here inside, we too are buried

beneath the wind-stroked, windswept grass.

Below the grass, the glass

of four wide windows

reveals - and revels in - the seen

and sometimes unseen sea,

six hundred feet below:

lapping, washing, whipping

the foot of this sea hill so steeply sloping

down brown-green bracken,

green and golden gorse,

and brown or green or sometimes purple heather.

It is land so long untrodden

apart from posts precisely placed

to fix and fence the flocks

that once would wander here,

fearless of falling –

unlike their shepherds, with their dogs,

who remain forever fearful.

But now there is a surer way

athwart this fearful land:

a path - with purpose, and for pleasure,

constructed with glad craftsmanship,

plundering the coastal views

of sea, and sky and ground

for storing in the mind

or – likelier – for capturing on camera:

creating a true treasure trove

to be unearthed in years to come, and one day found,

in a very different kind of burial mound.

 October 2013

IRAQ - End Game, 2004

It’s maybe just a game, 
but for the dead and dying,
the women and children crying,
it’s game over, just the same.

It’s a monstrous creation,
a game with a whispered greeting
for fearsome forces bringing
apparent liberation.

It’s not much to savour,
for soldiers in sand:
no castles to hand,
scant hiding, no cover.

It’s a dust-ridden road,
and dirty, to topple a tyrant. 
Nothing apparent
but tears, sweat and blood.

It’s a dry, desperate track,
barely seen through the wind and the sand,
to prized palaces that now stand 
abandoned - places of no going back.

It’s a one-way street
With no way out.
There never was.  Just dust, just heat,
And death, and rout.

It’s a blind alley, a maze
so much more than a shame:
a sham, a rout, a craze.
End game.

PAVEMENTS

Rectangular, except where broken.
Lines not trodden for fear of bears,
but hard enough for tears.
Or laughter.  Or even something spoken.

Perfect platforms for colour, motion,
Pathways to pain and pleasure.  
Frames for private pictures, 
littered with emotion.

Measured beats to mental music.
Meant to move us: noisy, magic.
Singular steps, paving
the way to headstones, and our engraving

OUR REVELS ENDED

When all my dreams are done,
then will I go.
For now though, I am thankful for the dreams 
as I awake.
It is dreams that make us what we are,
and how we are,
and who, and where, and when.
It is dreams that make us different.

A dawning light,
a morning mist,
still sleeping,
softly adorns the landscape.
Facing a new, another, day,
thoughts escape
and find another place, 
a space to host another world
which we create, 
as no other creature can.

Caught between the times
of fore and afternoon,
foregone and soon forgotten:
an afterthought is wrought
in strange uncertainty – it is a midday mood
of vacillation, hope and fear.
Captured like this, we are conscious,
of our chance to choose,
while other creatures
have no conscious choice.

Hot and heavy, humid, 
lazy, languorous, lethargic,
the afternoon can sleep:
a void cosseting our dreams
which shroud and shelter us 
from life’s harsh lesions, 
avoidable by us
but not our fellow creatures.

Sometimes, the darkening sky 
forebodes, forbids,
heralding closure on another day,
denying us fulfilment or fruition,
dealing us frustration,
fret and fear and fright,
delivering a night of darkness and despair,
but even then, and even there,
the dreams will come
to soothe, assuage
our dread.

At other times, the sky is clear
and calm, and the blind 
is gently drawn,
with the moon’s white light
a soft and soothing pillow.

And so the cycle spins.
The darkness disappears,
inviting day, and light,
and life-affirming joy,
for no clear reason.
And we wonder at the cause, 
and at the contrast
with other creatures,
asking if this elation 
is unique to us.

We come and go, we creatures
of this world, marking our presence 
with little more than 
flesh and blood, 
and breath and bones.
And yet we dream.

It is by dreaming
that we make our mark
on this small space.

And then, 
when all our dreams are done,
we go, each one of us.  
A human.
Being.

Spinnaker

Stand tall.  Stand fast. 

Stand stark and strong against the sky.

Stand way, way above the water.

Steel yourself. And sail.

Sail on, when you cannot sail away.

With no tomorrow, nor yesterday,

sail on for ever.

Seek admiration

for your elegance,

and your dominance.

Set a rising challenge

and a stunning viewpoint

for your visitors.

Explain your towering significance

and your special name:

with a meaning for all sailors:

working the wind,

winning over the wind;

sailing always,

and all ways.

Stand still, supreme.

Stand proud,

and stay at last

a soaring symbol

for a great seaport.