Allan Smith
Allan Smith is a West Sussex poet whose work often reflects his love of the countryside where he lives.
BARRIERS BETWEEN US
Barriers between us
are long, low trestle tables
where a looping queue
doubles back, files along
and drops folded decrees
into a black ballot box
so shaping the course of the next five years.
Close-shaven, smart-suited
middle aged civil servants
homely pearly women
in spectacles and twin-sets
gaze laconically at the moving line
from their lofty, superior position.
Meanwhile, brunette wives thick-lipped and sharp features
peer through coffee clouds
at husbands departing early
to cast their votes before work
Brian Redhead sets their agenda
from a Robert's radio on the mantelpiece.
Short-trousered children
inevitable consequence of a happy union
carry homework satchels
as they scurry excitedly
though not understanding
the significance of this day.
Final thrusts of springtime's arctic winds
incongruous mufflers, overcoats and headscarves
blue-collars arriving before their work
as front doors open at seven o'clock.
Primary school built on a cow field
of a farm that lay perished
for twenty years
pink-bricked semi-Georgian
colour mellowing
hawthorn hedge survivor standing
sadly by the gate.
No children are at this school today
council elections have swamped the lobby
classrooms piled high
with briefcases, collection boxes
and artefacts of a double poll
Margaret Thatcher's Conservatives
about to attain power
for many eleven years of domination
privatising and taking hold.
I arrived to make my mark,
shabby, careworn and sick at heart
twenty five on the calender
though eight years old within.
Through horn-rimmed eyes they acknowledge me
mouths averted in disdain
I vote in anger, frustration and isolation,
insular, impotent and out of step.
I walk out quickly
hanging my head
their banter
becoming mercifully more faint.
They belong to the human race
while I am a lost being.
Their family circle
controls them in love
clasping with hands they always
take for granted.
Barriers between us
rigid, teak-timber fittings,
crocodile-skinned emotions
I'd love them to want me
but to no avail.
They tally up,
and take the total
leaving out the hand-chilled urchin
phantom of yesterday's infant.
MARION
Marion smiled like a china doll
her hips gyrating at a frantic rate.
She was the one who could do the Twist
long-lissom, ten-year-old legs
clad in their first pair of brown stockings.
Everyone watched in fun-filled envy
Chubby Checker crunched and crackled
from the aging record player
until Mr Williams lifted off the arm.
Another boy could play guitar
some would dress as minstrels
Marion exuded sunshine everywhere she went
and as bright, shiny May became joyous June,
the talent contest belle
took to the running track
leaving the others in a cloud of dust
as her spring heels
powered her on towards fulfilment.
TWO BICYCLES
Two bicycles leaning on a lonely hedge
of close-cropped holly
forever bereft of berries.
Scuff-marks on the paintwork
though their tyres are well-pumped
and the chains carefully oiled.
Keeping each other company
while suffering their annual ordeal
inside the house which was never a home,
where torn and desperate decorations
hung heavily above a lop-sided tree,
and the sitting room clock is silent -
its hands afraid to move.
Clumsily handled sherry glasses
laughter from a hollow heart.
Central heating which dries the air
but leaves the bones still frozen.
The loving couple shift uncomfortably
on a rigid sofa which aches their backs
until deliverance arrives 9 o'clock
and they leave that sham behind.
The night is clean and crisp and clear
a friendly moon beams down.
They cycle slowly along familiar roads
Fairy lights winking from
chequer-curtained windows
their duty done for another year.
Twenty-five Christmas Eves
of companionship and joy
are memorably set behind them.
Brother-in-law mocks
their two-wheeled progress
as he wipes the frost
from his company car.
But when they reach their own little lane
blood begins to warm once more
bikes at rest inside a shed
safe from that prickling hostile hedge.
Joyful bells peel from the centre of town
a special star gazes down at the couple
as they look up in gladness
at a bright brimming sky
laden with fine, perfect jewels
the only kind they will ever need
the ones which bring true fortune.
DECEMBER PALETTE
Colours in my December palette
on that first Tuesday afternoon
when I took time out from deed and duty
and placed my easel on the lawn.
Blue for the days of loneliness,
thick blankets that stretched
through angry adolescence and beyond.
White of the chilly frost mantle
which settled on the resting country
not to relent until March.
Gold where the flames
which spread from our hearthside
enveloping me
into one flourish of childhood wonder
dissolving into reddened embers.
Black for all the thwarted dreams
failed hopes, dead ends
and stillborn ambitions
nerve endings which perished
to leave lifeless and dusty skin.
Colours beneath a low sun
grown weary with the year.
Tears shed into paint pots
lightening their tones.
One freeze later sees an older boy
whose brush bristles faded away.
THE GAZEBO
Sun-filled summer evenings
spent sitting in striped folding chairs,
looking out through open doors
onto a world about to change.
You left before time,
back to your busy city
with its rushing ball games.
I was about to find a new way
hurried by an unrestrained calendar.
Our gazebo
magnified rays of a perfect sun
already stealing away
imperceptibly lower than the night before.
In the glass I saw you
as a benevolent shadow
unmocking, becoming part of my orbit
and on those warm raindrop evenings
it kept us safe and dry.
Three shiny windows
views of a fading life that never was.
Freedom days, time to think
space to circulate, encouragement to speak.
June became July
and with it solitude
musing on your departure
imagining what you would have said.
Night moths stuck to abandoned webs
inside the gazebo
trapped by lack of foresight
and disappointment's inevitability.
A SEVENTH SUMMER
A bottle of pop
ten chubby fingers
and a sun-filled August afternoon
waiting without patience for the downtown bus,
hands clenched inside blue flannels
clutching coins carefully conserved
to be traded for tangy sherbet powder.
Toyshops appear on every corner
red-stripe slanting sale labels
not enough time for a six-year-old to wonder
summer holidays would soon pass.
A packet of plain crisps
salt-bag tucked into a bottom corner
he stands in the evening garden
as crickets start to sing.
Freckle-faced boy
resists the creeping shadow of sleep
which tries to take its precious time.
Impatient for tomorrow morning
and its many incalculable wonders
hiding behind fluffy feather-cloud
set to awaken with all the gladness
of a boy
in his three-hundredth week of life.
AT PENTECOST
Spirit has risen
high to heaven
February's promise fulfilled
all those timid leafless branches
drawn into glory by the rising force.
In fifty days since Eastertide
landscape has turned to velvet green
pastel creams and yellows
now lie asleep for summer
beneath the woodland floor.
Bud burst, new growth
and bulging hedges
nests filled,
warbler song from the spinney
meadows dotted with golden buttercup stars,
winding river stretching
its strands of eel-grass
dense cover upon the green hill.
All of this instigated
by the Holy breath of completeness,
the ever-loving light
which casts invisible rays
affirmation that the Godly spirit
guides and gathers
every speck of creation.
It is there in the grassland
in condensation from its plumes
wondrous spectre
climbed to the pinnacle
casting a mantle of benevolence.
We set our eyes from the sky
in safety that brought
such lush colour
and triumphant tranquillity
Praise Be
for the feast of Pentecost.
JULY THUNDERSTORM
Yet another summer night
with no fresh air to breathe
week after sultry, sweating week
atmosphere jelly-thick with heat prickles
Invisible insects scratch at my face
a circle of sweat formed below my collar
Friday supper time
clouds dropped lower
closing in for the kill.
Final flecks of daylight
disappeared westwards
allowing darkness its brief midsummer reign
then lying in bed
gazing through a curtain slit
I heard the ceiling crackle with the first rumble
constipated clouds at last relieved
a rampant deluge hits the parched, scoured soil
swept along gutters
then down through drainpipes
away into channels unknown.
Raindrops bounced off concrete paths
a fever broken
jagged streaks of lightning rocketed to earth
illuminating my bedroom
into a ghost train-ride.
I counted the seconds between flashes and claps
then lost track of numbers
amidst yet more savage electric surges.
One endless hour later
cloud collisions became intermittent
glaring night-lights faded out
and fresh, cool air,
moist enough to drink
blew in through open windows
bringing with it relief.
A tormented sky which could bear
its grief no longer
and so cried out its agony
onto the land below
killing calm indifference
with a mighty flood
re-asserting heavenly power
over everything terrestrial.
CANDLE AND GLASS
Another full, satisfying
working week is over
there is laughter in the street
of a cheery seaside town.
Pub doors are open
revellers rush inside,
colours dash along strands of light bulbs
mounted on the quayside
lighthouse flashes in the far distance,
vinegar scents the air.
They sit at a corner table
in a quiet restaurant
entranced in each other's gaze
on their flower-decked table
candles burn, swaying
at the slightest rush of air
beautifully distorted flames
beam back at them
from the patterned wine goblets.
He speaks, she absorbs
every word and nuance
she smiles, giggles
like a schoolgirl.
His heart gladdens,
the future will be theirs
when festivities of courtship
give way to practicalities
of a life shared
with all its achievements and
inevitable setbacks and misdemeanours.
Holidaymakers are out for the evening
or heading back to hotel,
cottage or chalet.
A hazy moon softly
beckons the tides,
white waves cares the foreshore
then slip back as surf.
Harbour lights search out
midsummer mists
drifting above the water.
Friday night at the holiday town
week now finished,
ebbed of duty
has flowed back to leisure
and restoration
bringing with it
hope and excitement
stretching -
out to the horizon.
CARNATION
Chalk spring waters rise
from a shrouded hilltop
and seep down through white porous rocks
into verdant, buttercup-speckled fields
where the Carnation cow
grazes contentedly
ruminating on green strands of nourishment
generated from goodness
that is created by gentle motions.
June again
and clean, clear liquid
burbles up from its endless source
lime-less water caresses your lips
and slips down your throat
purifying, moistening
adolescent summer's nectar,
gracious, bovine faith restored.
MISS ALISON
On Tuesday afternoons long ago
As winter turned to spring
She sat facing our school piano
'Miss Alison' the name we knew her by.
An awkward elephant of a woman
Square-set shoulders, a heavy jaw
And deep-pink horn rimmed spectacles
Resignation covered her face
Of twenty years piano pumping
With thick, pudgy ringless fingers
Resonant renderings of traditional tunes
Sounded out from the little hall.
I hardly ever heard her speak
A muted Margaret Rutherford figure
She cared little for boys and girls
Her brown, weary eyes followed the music dots
While her hands filled in the spaces.
Miss Alison lived through two world wars
An ebullient teenager in the first
Then as a woman breaching middle age
Her prospects wrecked
On some far-off foreign shore.
Beneath her woolley cardigan
Her white silk blouse
And austere stocking tops
Beat a heart that no-one saw
As we took her tunes for granted.
Every well-scrubbed cherubic face
Was a potential grandchild never born
And when we gave our thanks at the end
She scratched a corner of her eye
For that familiar speck of grit returned
Every Tuesday afternoon
As the heavy lid fell shut.
THE FINAL EMBERS
You grew yourself a forest
Of many beautiful trees
You fed and watered, nurtured them
And sprayed against disease.
When they reached maturity
You had them cut as lumber
Heavy branches, mighty boughs
All were split asunder.
Pines were shaped into chairs and tables
Oaks were riven as posts
White willow logged into firewood
A cosy room for glad hosts.
The log pile stood twenty yards high
and eighty feet across
The wood disposed of piece by piece
Leaving scraps of bark and moss.
The last limbs burned
By that threadbare hearth
Throughout insipid heat
Withered members cracked and dry
Their cycle now complete.
You staggered despairingly towards the grate
Unable to gain your breath
Nothing remains of your glorious plan
Just damp, cold ashes and death.
PERPETUAL BIRDS
Wings have turned full circle
Bring us back beneath the same roof.
Once it was sparrows and starlings
Distracting me outside the classroom window.
Now it is more special birds
In zoom-lens close-up
On a ceiling-suspended
Canvas film-sheet.
You , retired , stand behind
Unable now to admonish me
As a fully fledged adult
I flap on past
Leaving you perched in position.
Feathers are about to fly for me
Just peaceful contentment for you,
On a roost
High above the aviary
Where you can watch your nestlings
Beating hard against the bird house.
FOOT FALL
On a cold, grey weekday afternoon
In early March
I walk the pavements of housing estates
That cover the ground
where farms used to be -
I feel the foot fall of men
Who worked this land
During five hundred years or more.
Deep within me, I hear the voices
of cowmen, urging their herd
out of their byre and into the pastures.
When I close my eyes,
those cars creeping into driveways
and the roar of eastbound traffic
on the dual-carriageway
Is replaced by rhythmic clinking
of bridles upon rein-buckles
as working horses
dragged ploughshares
across the fertile soil.
On days like this
I long to step out of this
highly mechanised, computerised
mediocre world in which we are trapped
back to when mankind and nature were in harness.
Lives were often shorter then,
though richer , more fulfilling
and accomplished
when activities were controlled
by the elements,
rooks and crows in families
gleaned grain and insects
from the turned earth.
Oaks and elms outlined
the landscape
field maple , hazel and holly
filled in between.
Every springtime hedgerow
teemed with joyful chirping
of new bird life
no-one minded their insular lives
self-contained within the farm,
just an occasional trip
to the nearest village
or on grand occasions
even to the market town.
Perhaps the ghosts of farming men
return to this site,
stepping awkwardly
over flagstones and kerbs
trundling uncertainly
across residential roads
and long to
reclaim the heritage and honour
bestowed upon them
by creation's greatest force.
FLYING HIGH
Their vapour trails drifted
merging into benign
cirrus and altocumulus
So becoming a part
of the endless cycle.
Silver-grey iron solid bodies
ducked and wove,
seeking shelter behind grey clouds
as enemy combatants
traversed the North Sea
on their missions
of fascist supremacy
and destruction.
As England bathed
beneath a golden sun-spread summer
shells were shot from both directions
bringing metal birds down into the ocean
their crews burned, bleeding
or about to drown.
Nearly five years were to pass
from those tremendous battles
to a time of peace
once more in the homeland.
Memories would remain forever
among those who had fought
or endured
while those of us born too late
to have known it
would conjecture
at the mighty, unseen power
that made it come right -
in the end.
HEALING ANGEL
A silver, glittering angel
fell from heaven last night
and lingered,
flapping her wings
in the dark sky
above ash trees, conifers
and sleeping buildings below.
She was sent as a saviour
to a frightened man
awaiting a great ordeal.
She flew invisibly
through the hospital walls
settling on his shoulders
just before he fell asleep.
Morning arrived —
the angel had vanished
leaving behind
her promise of reassurance.
The patient accepted his fate
as a great adventure
and closed his eyes again.
Now free in heart
light of footsteps,
rescued by his heavenly guide.
A little time passed
and he slipped away slowly —
safe onto the other side.
WESTERING
Cold uncaring shiver was repeated
from one freezing day to the next,
so we sought sanctuary
away to the west
- in the land of seals and smugglers.
Three weeks into an uncertain year
innovation and expectation beckoning.
We stepped onto the foreshore
by a secret, ancient cove
where waters help the soft breath
of a kind Atlantic wind
which cut a multitude of white sand channels
beneath solid granite rocks.
A thousand unseen eyes
watched from mossy crag-cracks
gulls and guillemots soared above.
Lights flashed from a motor launch
over on the far horizon.
Snowdrops, ventured bravely
through melting frost.
While lapping waters in the bay
began their periodic turn
as the hidden moon called and caressed the waves homeward.
Surely as springtime follows winter
change was spreading eastwards
turtle-true primroses resurrected
new lemon-pastel life.
Whipped-cream Cornwall surf
lapped at their ankles
as they faced a sunset
rounder and more rosy
than they had ever dared expect.
RUTS
Every cart must have a donkey
to haul it through the mud
cutting tyre-tracks
deep into brown earth
pitted, rutted trails of progress.
When those gullies become too deep
you try to climb their walls
but fall back to the bottom
dirtier, wetter and wiser.
What cannot rise just carries on
sinking lower as feet grow heavy
when rain appears you begin to drown
though your head somehow
keeps bobbing up til arid days of dust and drought
crack the trench beneath you
then at last, a way out appears
for your blistered, vein-canals
to an unknown straight, smoother road ahead.
A LOSING GAME
(In memory of Amy Jade Winehouse
14-9-1983 to 23-7-2011)
She probably did not remember when darkness first covered her thoughts
Perhaps it was when she believed
Her parents had stopped loving each other.
Even as a young girl she found the right words
and as she absorbed heartfelt songs
by beehived, black American soul singers,
Melody and rhythm became hers as well.
Amy was kind, funny, petulant and mischievous.
More than anything she craved
deep, unconditional everlasting love.
Infatuations came and went,
preparation perhaps for the genuine feeling
if only it had arrived.
Her songs were played around the world
Record sales went gold
Mercury Music Awards and Grammies
Were bestowed on her
The one time ‘nervous waif’ poured out her deepest feelings on stage
to thousands of admirers at a time.
Then her demon returned,
more cruel and vengeful than ever
Soul-deep pain brimmed behind her eyes,
She turned to alcohol and narcotics
to suppress that insidious beast
her words deserted her when she needed them the most
fans looked away in disappointment
close friends lost faith
Photographers concentrated their cameras
upon her heavy, dark-shadowed eyes
and the ever increasing rash of tattoos
scored into her self-slashed emaciated arms.
Booing from her former followers
grew so loud she could not rest
Complex images, once well-formed and moulded into songs
became a dreadful cacophony within
Love turned sour one last time
Rehabilitation did not work,
and that aching voice cried itself out
Her life had become a losing game
and on an overcast midsummer Saturday,
Amy slipped out of this existence,
though she will never again be alone
as many more have died because of love
and others surely will --
one way or another.
SWITCHING OFF
Now that you have gone
every love song has lost its meaning
soulful voices, tender lyrics
and cascading strings
would once set me aglow,
only now I just hear words —
familiar rhymes that I pull to pieces
criticise, analyse, cringe
at their over-familiarity.
All this because
it somehow makes me feel better,
revenge taken on the romantics
who always get it right,
walking away with their lover
as the final bars begin to close.
Now that you have gone
I will abandon music
in favour of speech stations,
to hear frustrated housewives
and tetchy pensioners
venting their spleens on anything
from the price of petrol
to seaweed smells,
just a brief spell of parity,
disappearing when the programme ends.
Now that you are gone
the radio is once more my closest friend
and I become
disconnected, devoid of reason,
channel hopping
gleaning odd moments of aural interest
static hissing, sounds distorted
maximum interference —
until close down.
WALLISWOOD WELL
In the village centre
On a piece of green land
The historic well is situated
Its stones sheer and slippery
Mouth obscured by a paving slab.
Semolina algae brickwork walls
Are never dry even on the hottest day.
Its shaft descends deeply
Into the Earth’s bowels,
Where secret springs
Are formed from bubbles
The ultimate mystery of existence.
Water, upon which life depends,
Was drawn from this well
For thousands of years.
It would be boiled for drinking
Put into tubs then cleansed peoples’ skins,
Poured upon camp fires at midnight
Long before mains supply,
Now just a wrist-turn away.
This hallowed orifice has been sealed
So it claims no life in recompense
For those sustained and safe
Through the ages of its use.
Walliswood Well is now a monument
Most of its brickwork smashed away
And even if a flowering tree
Was planted on top
Still the subterranean process
would continue
Constant flow finding other channels.
Elements are eternal
All streams, springs and rivulets
Are indestructible,
If concrete submerges them
They escape even further down.
A SAD SEAHORSE
There he stands — unwanted, bewildered
out of place
In a Lifeboat shop window.
Artefacts of family holidays
surround him,
Beach balls, buckets and spades,
windbreaks.
Customers buy these objects every day
But they barely give him a glance.
Just nine inches high,
Sad eyes facing the ocean
Long-billed, brown-crested,
A forlorn mane
Runs along the backbone
Of this strange “baby dragon.”
He arrived in April,
on one of the first warm days
At the whim of a lady buyer
Who pitied his winsome computer image.
He saw summer creep in,
Grey sea going gradually blue.
Warm air and salt winds sedate him
As he watches pleasure boats
Encircle the island and sail joyfully home.
His future sits uncertainly
Just one inquisitive boy
Asks his mother
What the “funny little animal” is called.
Heat of July leads on
Into humid August
Crowded beaches and
Heaving pavements
Then September’s cooler westerlies
appear.
Swimmers and sunbathers
Wrap up their towels and Soltan
And make their way home.
This shy, plaintive being remains
Perhaps to be discarded later
Or take his place
On the display stand once more,
To face another lonely summer.
OUT OF THE CLOUDS
High above the clouds
looking down through layered vapour patterns.
Thursday flight eastwards
on an early afternoon
brimming with springtime promise.
February's final frozen finger days
fading into the abstract assessment
that we refer to as memory.
Bright-button smiles,
of svelte stewardesses
administer closely to our needs
cups run high with dark, rich coffee
reclining seats
and starched, white head-rests.
A window to view
across countless, unknown miles
to a point where the horizon
takes it away without explanation,
forcing us to content ourselves
with visions already provided.
WHAT IS A SOUL?
What is a soul?
he asked himself
in a stone-cold kitchen
homely with the dust of comfort
alive with a friendly buzz.
His grandfather's dictionary
bearing John Bull's name
was brought out of its cloistered cupboard
so his question may be answered.
What is a soul?
he asked his elders,
recalling a neighbour recently dead.
had his soul risen ceremoniously
through temperamental springtime clouds
on its way to a resting place
far from human vision?
The answers given were unrevealing evasive and condescending
he was as yet
too young to understand
untarnished, honest, pure in heart.
So he sought the solution for himself
scoured between soil and sky
deep down inside himself.
His lifetime mission avowed intent
was to discover that elusive organ
- which others called a soul.
THE WORLD TOMORROW (April 1966)
The world tomorrow,
incomprehensible,
unattainable
as distant as Venus
and as unintelligible
as Radio Luxembourg sounded
during the day.
Every evening as foreign pop finishes
Garner Ted Armstrong
speaks on the air
foretelling a time of future certainty
tucked away behind folded clouds
when those who have passed the earthly test
will walk hand-in-hand through eternity
untroubled, free of worldly wounds
- spiritually complete.
His pearl-string words
tumble into my mind
and glisten inwardly as night time comes.
Music is the medium
of both solace and stimulation
warm, tender harmonies of fine feelings
and melodies too powerful to need any words.
The world tomorrow
will be no different
from the one I know today
those around me older, greyer,
still tied to duties and inhibition
shackling their creativity
but keeping this great world turning.
DEW
The love that bursts free from me is unbidden,
but I need its deep release.
Passion unwanted, unrewarded
drying in the morning breeze.
Your love
rises and falls
surf tumbling over silver rocks
but meeting the wrong river.
Dew can never last
Its bubbles burst
before it can melt into atmosphere,
to descend once more
in the private calm of early hours
refreshing green shoots
waiting to discover
the reason for their existence.
WHERE VIOLET GROWS
Flowers flourish in the warm caress of Spring.
A mauve violet, early blooming
bright from within circles of gold
that are born from true love.
Every primrose petal nurtured
into full-blossomed maturity of its own.
Now flowers are spent,
leaves brown and curled
sap sinking into withered roots
hiding beneath the soil.
Tears of remembrance
bathe dust from the crinkling form
of life that can never end.
Violet resides in eternal sunshine
strolling through familiar fields of untold wonder,
just as they were then,
spotted by buttercups and vivid green
holding hands with her handsome husband
surrounded by the six children of their long and joyful union.
Church bell chimes the hour
pink-crested jay
flaps between treetops of guardian oak.
Bluebells in the lover’s wood
never fade into summer repose
and the spreaded sweet violet
exudes her heavenly fragrance
out into an endless atmosphere
of peacefulness and calm.
SCARED OF SPARKLERS
Orange flashes streaked the sky
rifle-fire bangers
resounded through the night.
An elegant Roman candle
feigned failure, than sprang to life
cascading neon sparks
nullified by contact with the earth.
Bandit-holster jumping jacks
followed him in mischief.
Night-light flaming touch-paper tab
chased the boy around his garden.
Violet volcano fire
seared and hummed
then collapsed, expended beside him.
A glowing chequerboard of constellations
spread out above like a treasure map.
Modest bonfire burned purposefully on
while all the others
had flared and flourished
before regressing into embers.
Scared of sparklers
drawing illumination from a coloured box
his Catherine wheel would not rotate
but hissed and cursed itself
into an angry frazzle
languishing at his feet.
He stepped indoors
red-ruddy warm,
as crimson balls’ distant fire
gradually faded from view.
Darkness hung lightly
as saltpetre’s peppery aroma
masked the innocent atmosphere.
He kept those pyrotechnics
at careful arm’s length
and let them crackle on without him
until an inevitable deluge
turned the ashes to a sudden mass,
part of one inaccessible mud-field
littered with corpses of yesterday’s fireworks
pathetic reminders of high-flown evenings - -
multicoloured memories.
BENNIE
He waited for me by the cycle barriers
blue-green rails of tarnished metal
where our school path met the pavement.
He recognised me straight away
kind gentle eyes alert
grey flecks now invading
his sooty-black fur.
Long, slender tapering tail
ending in a white rapier tip,
the whole thing wagging in perpetual rhythm
as he rubbed against my shins.
Five paces behind my feet he followed
his footsteps clicking reassuringly
he stepped aside to let prams pass by
but never averted his gaze from me.
A stream of light carried me along
my first realisation of empathy
harmonic understanding of other life
and where I stood in relation to it.
We safely made the lollipop crossing
and he turned to bid goodbye,
with a flick of his chin
and a cold, damp nose
brushing against my hand.
Walls came between us
but the light remained
our lives linked, separately though interwoven,
a bow-legged mongrel
ever-loyal, compassionate and punctual.
I WISH I WERE A FISH
I wish I were a fish again
the way I used to be aeons ago.
I would rest near the river bottom
flapping my dorsals,
caressing the sandy pebbles
with my pectoral flippers.
There would be no need
for complicated courtship,
meeting a mate
would be almost automatic
our spawn then discreetly effused
would cling to willow-moss
until biological magic
could turn that semolina mass
into new piscatorial life.
If I were a fish
my end may come suddenly
snaffled by a predatory pike,
or tricked into capture
on an angler's hook
then thrown back bloody-mouthed
unable to eat
weakened towards death
In a few blurry-eyed hours.
No lingering end then for me
no fading away
dressed up and laid out
mourned for a month
remembered in some ill-posed photographs
taking against my will.
I would love to be a fish,
perhaps a ruff or a prickly perch.
I would scour the murky river bed
and feathery eel-weed
feeding on scraps and smaller fishes
so no more beef steaks
no lamb chops or casseroled chicken,
my needs now spartan,
my aspirations low.
So just one thing
has changed through the centuries
to make me what I am today
somehow, some way, somewhere -
I seem to have lost my fins.
MONASTERY
Unrucked manes, combed and plaited
bridle-shone on Sunday afternoon.
Sacred bell hangs steady in the tower
until called upon to announce Evensong.
Two black-frocked, steady-gazing priests
stand in the glebe
surveying their monumental fortress.
Starling song begins
from high on the apex.
Blue-bright sky interminable,
endless above
creates flashing, fading
shapes before their eyes.
First signs of coming Spring
are from scarved, hooded figures
ambling around the field edge.
Golden Cross
high above the monastary entrance.
Dark, heavy, cask-oak door
free from January icicles
sits on it's latch
for warm, benevolent
hand to push open,
and for broad, honest hearts
to be filled.
AFTER THE NEWS
After the news came the expectation,
the realisation
then the confirmation
that one personal strand
would soon be undone
and cast into the void of mortality.
A grey fog risen
hanging over my waking hours
while demons gnawed
at my next anxious night time,
keeping precious sleep at bay.
After the news came disbelief waves of horror
and tempered relief
that our all-forgiving father
would still accept an errant soul
who had slipped and lost his way.
Blue, bright afternoon
borrowed from springtime, six weeks on.
Austere cubicle on the second floor
where a tactful consultant reveals the worst
and a helper nurse with a Kleenex box
tries to mop the pain away.
After the news came the journey back through a line of headlights,
in front and and behind,
stretching determinedly all the way home
formed by loving sons, fathers,
sisters, brothers, mothers.
And a lost free soul caught midstream
so unattached within.
BEECHES
Right in the heart of St Leonard's forest
a family cluster of beech trees
prepare to shed once more
neat, coppery leaves
similar in colour to iron
which once was mined from this ground,
as autumn season gives way
to the rasping ravages of winter.
The patriarch tree, standing majestically
seventy feet above Greenslade Wood
dwarfing everything but the oaks,
its bark peeling from the effects
of two hundred years or more
onslaught from the elements.
Its lower trunk has been
scored into by generations of young men
carving their initials with penknives
giant roots running,
gnarled and twisted along the forest floor
gouging yellow clay from underneath
as if seeking escape
from inevitable mortality.
Slightly younger beeches stand
in deference
around the big trees' incomparable girth
depositing mast from multi-stemmed fingers
down onto the arboreal earth.
On the ground lie smaller specimens
stems snapped
when November gales of earlier years
came reaping.
These trunks are now soft and pithy,
colonised by mycorrhizal fungi
starting to be consumed
by woodlice and other insects,
all transforming the mush
into lesser matter,
its perpetuation process now complete.
Some centenarians lie horizontal
in woodlands' soft bedding,
lacking strength
to raise their stems skyward,
desperately clinging to life
like terminal patients
who can only measure their existence in months.
We can just imagine
the stories these trees could tell,
firstly of woodsmen and charcoal burners
itinerants and gypsies
camped beneath their adolescent silver boughs
on moon- full Victorian nights, then sensing war as young men
of various countries clashed,
acquisition of more territory
being their ultimate objective.
Those trees could describe first seeing grey streamlined
wings that never need to flap
gliding through the sky,
their roars far louder
than the most raucous avian cry.
They witnessed many lovers' trysts
made under dense, gentle branches' shade
on early Summer Sunday afternoons,
promises kept, though many reneged upon
passion consummated
between bracken's nascent tongues,
some welcomed, many forbidden,
nostalgia now for those
who have only such memories
to sustain them
recalling trees in the forest's heart
many upright still
others interminably broken.
THE FINAL KEY
Rummaging through my key tin
silently allocating each one
to its particular door or padlock,
I find myself left with a Yale,
well-used, scuffed,
rust formed on its levers
tarnished by time
though still reflecting morning light.
I turn and fondle it,
roll against my palm.
My index finger
feels somehow comfortable
turning inside its slot.
For this is a back door opener
to the house in which I grew up
where love was given sincerely,
and in good faith
but somehow turns to poison
when greed, envy, aggression and spite
conspired to banish
all normal ways of development
away from our address.
Inside that house
terrifying anger raised its head
new life was cruelly flooded away
before it could be fully formed,
while heartache and disillusion
took more than their share of tenure,
particularly through my formative years.
I look at the object
and recall
teenage nights when I used to
let myself in
quietly and furtively
only to be betrayed by a careless footstep
or the mewl of a welcoming cat.
That house was demolished
by yellow, metal machines
turned into rubble
and taken away,
to lie beneath concrete foundations
in another part of town.
The only lock
this key can now open
is the door of yesterday,
mixed, mellow memories
some cherished, others recalled with pain
though all providing lessons learned.
For this reason
the final key can remain in my drawer,
a memento of chances offered
some taken willingly -
others left to rust.
AN EARLY SUNDAY MORNING
Pealing bells greeted me
on that sunbeam-blessed morning.
I opened my curtains
and they resonated louder and more clearly.
I saw people passing by,
some alone,
but families also,
gentlemen in light grey spring suits
ladies wearing respectable hats
all strolling towards church
past the grass bank
clothed with primroses,
and if I stretched out far enough,
I could just make out the steeple.
Below my bedroom window
Was our garden,
privet hedged on three sides
that garden whose every inch
I had searched and scoured,
finding insects underneath stones
digging roadways with a tiny trowel
and imagining the bears and badgers
who would shelter there at night.
All was harmony
in that little southern town
mid-March, early spring,
voices of war
silent then for twelve years.
To the south beyond the main road
and it's line of town houses
lay the Weald
and the South Downs,
places I would later explore
and come to love.
But then I was just four years old,
my own world
reached no further
than the town centre.
Toyshops, Chart and Lawrence,
Woolworth's, Timothy White's
and that fishmonger's in East Street
where haddock, cod and mackerel
lay face-up on metal trays,
then the old market place
where on Saturday afternoon
I would be bought a colourful comic
only if I had been well behaved.
Everything then
was as close as possible
to perfection.
Ladies sang bright, tuneful
songs on the wireless.
I knew nothing then of worries,
of fear, isolation, misunderstanding,
danger or doubts.
I thank God for that child's world
of gentle sunshine, new discoveries
and celestial sounds
that wafted through my ears
and settled inside my being
For always.
TOUCHING THE PINES
[ This poem achieved second place in the Decanto Open Poetry Competition 2010 ]
I touched those pines again today
slats of bark felt just the same
as those that tore skin
from my tiny fingers
when I scrabbled around
to explore them
as a curious five-year-old.
They then seemed like skyscrapers,
my neck ached
as I gazed towards their summit.
I collected cones for no real reason
except they reminded me
of little brown pineapples.
I stuck them in a drawer
disregarded.
Many other matters came and went
those cones dried out
fragmented and died
finally destroyed on a Guy Fawkes bonfire.
More fortunate cones
found their way into the soil
took root and sprouted stems,
upright fern-fronds
safe in a corner.
Those tall pines remain
strong and streamlined as ever
showing no inclination to topple down.
Their progeny caught up,
and now stand beside them
tops nodding
in the same south-westerly September breeze.
I can still touch these pines
but I could never climb them,
force of gravity
fear of falling
and lack of footholds
conspiratorial in their efforts
to keep my feet
firmly on the ground.
TO SANCTUARY
A cold , heartless November wind
blew across from the North Sea.
Urban chill cloaked the pavements,
people walked in winter coats
buttoned up to their collars.
The bus pulled pulled out at three o'clock
with a tortured figure on board
bound for the retreat at Brentwood,
at the other end of twisting
leaf-shed lanes.
Numbed into lethargy by barbiturates
ghostly white skin
and hair slicked back Ratso style.
David fails to notice
the archways of oaks
which the double-decker brushes
as its tyres slurp through countless puddles
of winter rain, falling with subtle monotony.
Caring hands upon his shoulder
his sister tucks in his scarf
a white monster mansion
appears through iron portals
hopes rise for sickness's cure,
for this is the hallowed hospital
where suffering spirits need not cry alone.
The corridors were long and shiny
constantly trodden by shuffling feet
ceilings high look down upon patients
grey, unshaven, mumbling,
wailing like banshees
pushing a tea trolley on twisted tyres.
David sat on a padded bench
staring at the Dettol floor,
sweating hands clasped together,
body shaking with apprehension.
Darkness fell on the abode of rest
and all the lights came on.
His loved ones hugged him and bade goodbye
then we rushed to catch a bus ride home.
David's face pressed against the glass pane
haloed in rain tears
which fell from the sky of a year turned weary.
A gentle nurse led him to a dormitory
her eyes alight with benevolence.
Reassurance was in her touch, understanding of the wheels within
which clog and rattle from improper use
and whine unoiled
in shaded corners.
CROCUSES IN THE CHURCHYARD
Crocuses in the churchyard show
where love lies sleeping
In a peaceful haven .
Broad-petalled blooms
enticed to open by Springtime sun
pass their peak of profusion
and slowly prepare
for forth coming summer slumber.
On Autumn days you visited her grave
and clipped away
the season's final grass straggles
through cold, joyless Winter months
you placed plastic flowers
into dainty Chinese painted urns
and set them into the soil.
Oh, how long those dark evenings seemed
with only fire-glow for company .
Reliving laughter, recalling confidences
thinking of unnecessary
angry words exchanged.
Then lengthening days
made you feel slightly stronger
and able to act the way you had before.
Now in the friendly month of new living,
warm reassurance spreads over you
you speak in slow whispers
to a listening headstone,
flowering jewels take your greetings to her
gold stars of celandine,
pastel pale primroses
wild as the wind
just as she used to be.
You leave the country graveyard
with plans for planting in Summer.
Bright patterned pansies
will be close to her then
she lies at deserved rest
beneath sweet, brown Springtime soil
with flowers still her friends
the way they were
when she breathed above.
Crocuses in the churchyard
golden, white, speckled and mauve
joyful reward for faith asserted
colours shining clear
beneath a blue, honest sky.
You are with her each Saturday
kneeling in reverence
now knowing beyond all doubt
that she is not alone.
VALENTINE SKY
Clasping clouds
chase across a darkening sky
covering the bashful moon
like tender hands
upon the flesh of his beloved.
Stars appear as glimmering jewels
while Winter daylight
fades once more into restful sleep.
His gloved fingers
lightly grip her coat-clad arm
as they gaze together
into distant history
which shines majestically
from countless constellations.
A mighty scheme
consummately set out before them.
Her eyes reflect such wonder
of moonbeams
in their unfettered moments.
His tempered strength and reassurance
guide her towards unity, forever safe.
Cold brief-shower Saturday
a night's full , Valentine sky
love which began in a village hall
has expanded
into vast, endless realms
confirmation of eternal purpose
a priceless gift for two similar souls.
Standing on the threshold
of life's greatest-ever adventure
where so many millions have stood before.
Alone together, self-contained,
all-observing, goodwill blessing
time suspended, breathing deep.
Immune from chill, immersed in planning
for endless future on a pleasing plain.
HAND-BELL STILL RINGS
When I first heard the school bell ring
I was an apprehensive infant
on a misty, damp September morning
squeezing uncomfortably
through a scuffed-blue iron gate
to a little building set apart
bounded by green lawns
and concrete bunkers filled with coal.
That hand-rung bell
soon became more friendly
as I grew and learned, explored, investigated,
discovered answers to someone else’s questions
convincing myself
that I somehow must be the same.
Adolescent peals gave way to wedding bells
forging my connection to a similar soul
then duties arrived, worries and imagined ills,
cold scales of grief
weighing out my share.
Electric tills, buzzers and beepers
cruel night time telephones
rasping their tragic news.
Quaint, calming town hall clocks
reverentially confirming each hour
to secure, settled families and friends
industrious in their glad achievements.
Now there is just the hollow sound
of a hand-bell shaken by some weary wrist
beneath the din of interactive traffic
and the all-consuming silent spread
of people bound by collective unconscious.
The hand-bell hits those two familiar notes
not strident, nor musical
forever restricted by a short knot of rope.
I hear it in the distance
from a tree-covered hill
or rising out of a valley bottom
desperately calling me back.
In those tiny years it rang for a purpose
ends and beginnings
giving structure to those precious times.
Today’s bell is muffled,
continuing unbidden,
fading to an even lesser chime
though carrying on
to some unknown mornings, behind the fog
of disillusion and doubt.
The above poem was Highly Commended in the Decanto
Poetry Competition 2009
ATLANTIC SUMMER
A rippling blue reflection of Heaven
wending ever-westwards
widening
as it it reaches more nearly
the wind-warmed expanse
of turning ocean
seal-basked along its beaches.
Multitudinous fragments of sand,
miniature shining crystals
jelled into dry honey dust
lodged between toes
and rinsed twice a day
at the golden moon's volition.
Drifting down stream,
souls and bodies at rest
waving to adventurers
who clip the waters
in pulsating speedboats
surging against the waves direction.
Camel river's channel glides through the county
weaving between tors, rocky outcrops
and blonded cornfields
ripened,
ready soon for the harvester.
Red-bellied salmon
bearing spots of adulthood
lay spawn,
this progeny stuck precariously
to eel-grass tendrils
bending beneath the watery force.
Peace and perfection
sun- bronzed holidays
west country folk
whose future lies as open
as the estuary itself.
Part of the flow
without obligation
delighting in the company of cormorants,
sparkle-blue flashes of kingfisher
and scavenging gulls,
cunning and weary opportunists
feeding upon that which others leave behind.
Each section of river
distinct in its own character
though never self-contained
eternal, joyous heat of summer
tempered by calming
forehead-balming Atlantic breezes
pastoral symphonies within
evoked and uplifted
held aloft
half between sky and water
accompany merry travellers
whose voyage of discovery
streams calmly
towards fulfilment.
Allan Smith
THE ISLAND WITHIN
When Autumn descends upon the country
tired oak leaves from your guardian ring
will fall upon the hallowed isle
and lie upon fragrant humus
formed from a thousand bouquets.
Hopeful acorns then taken root
will shelter from adversity
awaiting their chance to begin a journey
towards the infinite sky.
When sharp winter winds
cut in from the north like angry jibes,
you shall lie peacefully in eternal slumber
safe from the pounding
of vengeful storms
watching lake waters rise
up to the oval
gently lapping at its verdant banks
like lover's tongues
in long sought after sublimation.
Springtime will come
with its sherbet - dusted hazel rods
and delicately scented primroses
their blooms made bigger
by the rotted remnants
of so many admirer's grief.
New life in the hawthorns
tadpoles wiggling in nature's revived miracle
joy of the lemon- yellow season shall abound.
Then Summer once more,
those oaks dense with foliage
shading you kindly
from fierce angry sun.
never again will your spirit be damaged
betrayed or neglected
harried or mocked
gentle Diana
at peace from all cruelty
on your childhood haven,
island within.
Allan Smith
TEAL ON THE WATER
My first glimpse of teal
Was as a young boy
It was on a tea-scented picture card
Carefully extracted
From its Brooke Bond packet for me.
I saw a little duck
Bronze-headed, panelled
In lime and emerald green
Rufous-cheeked, blue circled eyes
Silver feathers
Speckled in the sunlight.
These shades made
The baby-faced duck
Blend into a wintry landscape
I fell in love
With this most amiable of waterfowl
And longed to see
Some living teal one day.
Two thwarted generations later
I peer through the hinged window
Of a wooden bird sanctuary hide
Probing with binoculars for winter ducks
When a group of burnished faces
Bobbing on choppy freshwater waves
Rose like rockets above the lake
Swerved and veered above their reflection
Before alighting on reedy shallows —
This spring of teal
Newly arrived from Norway
Brought to life
That Bird Portrait illustration
From nineteen-fifty-seven.
I wrote down names
Of other ducks I saw
Pochard, gadwall, shelduck, wigeon
Remembering these also
From childhood photos
An unbelievable age ago.
It was my own failing
In not seeing them sooner
Allowing adolescence
And early adulthood
To slip by in a bird-less void
Of pop music, pleasure-seeking
And half-hearted courtship displays.
I had always believed
That early picture to be embellished
Like photographs of pot plants
In commercial catalogues
Colours seen intense in other people’s eyes
Faded greys and dowdy browns for me.
Those teal I saw
On a Saturday November morning
At last looked the same to me
As to other weekend bird lovers
Proud to have their progeny
Tenderly held above their knees
Themselves gazing through miniature goggles
Seeing the real birds straight away
Not needing to rely
On the words and illustrations of others
As they grow and develop
Full of wonder, free of fear.
Allan Smith
BLUE PRIMROSES
They arrived after coffee in a bottle-green, Commer van
and are carried across to wooden benches
to sit in state, awaiting worthy owners
like aristocratic cats abandoned in a refuge.
Blue primroses,
chest-close in Grimsby herring boxes,
loose-slatted but holding together
Victoria-blue flowers within
striking and sombre on a February day,
its damp chill filling the windless air,
sun obscured by a thousand layers of high grey cloud,
each plant set in its own clod of Sussex mud
cold and clammy, stuck beneath fingernails,
making them ache.
Soiling the coat-cuffs as plants are lifted out
to be re-spaced for improved presentation.
Their roots are thin, wiry but opportunistic
they delved deeply into former topsoil
to dredge up any goodness from below
leaves now firm and crinkly-green
snowy days behind us, springtime still to come.
Flower centres are off-yellow
dusky crowns contained within their dark-blue framework.
Such regularity can not be found in the wild,
just spring-sweet yellows as yet a spell away,
though buff-coloured hazel-rods hang in clusters
leaving damp sherbet-smears upon our coats
when we brush against them.
Blue primroses leave no trace,
deep and stark against bare boards.
Motorists see them as miniaturized sea-specks,
their season is short, their numbers are few
and when the sun triumphs over perpetual mists,
they will be done
planted into borders
gradually losing dominance
as reds and pinks come into flower
and those haunting colours are gone
which so epitomised the cupid month.
Blue, honest, true and consistent
tenacious enough to survive alone
though needing tender hands to make them flourish
keep their colour and grow new shoots.
Allan Smith
BY A THREAD
A yellow striped caterpillar rotating in its silken strand
Which dangles from an oak branch
In a summer forest come of age.
Dappled sunlight stretches down from a June sky
Brimming with the brightness
Of May time promise fulfilled.
A tiny creature wriggling,
Its body contracting and expanding
In accordion segments a black dot denoting its head.
Its life line had been woven from within
And now suspends this vulnerable creature
At risk from predators on the wing as it bravely holds position.
Thirty years have turned away
Endlessly into inner space
As I stand inside that wood again
And watch the same insect writhe.
Trees above me seemed much higher then
And life has continually contorted
Towards some perfect, unknown conclusion,
All existence hanging by a thread.
Allan Smith
BIRDS ARE BUSY
Birds are busy in hedge and tree
How I envy their industry
Gathering up any grub they see
So to gladly feed their progeny.
Nests are woven with skill and love
Wren uses feather down
Swallow moulds mud.
Timeless avian antics above
Chick-rearing instinct in their blood.
Six frantic weeks till the end of May
Sweet songs delivered
And eggs being laid.
Leaf cover growing denser day by day,
Let winds be gentle and owls stay away.
Mothers stuff food into babies’ beaks
Non-stop action through springtime weeks
Flying through farmstead forest and creeks,
In lowest marshland and highest peaks.
Blue tits hanging upside down
Starlings squawking in the heart of town.
Jay bird bold with a pink, raised crown
Humble dunnock spotted brown.
By midsummer’s night some fledglings fly
With hope and courage
Through a wide open sky.
While the wingless watch their lives flit by
And the heavy-feathered wonder and cry.
Birds are busy I long to be too
In a worthwhile cause that would carry me through
These barren skies and promises due
To that free-flowing skyway
I am sure I once knew.
Allan Smith
BARRIERS BETWEEN US
Barriers between us
are long, low trestle tables
where a looping queue
doubles back, files along
and drops folded decrees
into a black ballot box
so shaping the course of the next five years.
Close-shaven, smart-suited
middle aged civil servants
homely pearly women
in spectacles and twin-sets
gaze laconically at the moving line
from their lofty, superior position.
Meanwhile, brunette wives thick-lipped and sharp features
peer through coffee clouds
at husbands departing early
to cast their votes before work
Brian Redhead sets their agenda
from a Robert's radio on the mantelpiece.
Short-trousered children
inevitable consequence of a happy union
carry homework satchels
as they scurry excitedly
though not understanding
the significance of this day.
Final thrusts of springtime's arctic winds
incongruous mufflers, overcoats and headscarves
blue-collars arriving before their work
as front doors open at seven o'clock.
Primary school built on a cow field
of a farm that lay perished
for twenty years
pink-bricked semi-Georgian
colour mellowing
hawthorn hedge survivor standing
sadly by the gate.
No children are at this school today
council elections have swamped the lobby
classrooms piled high
with briefcases, collection boxes
and artefacts of a double poll
Margaret Thatcher's Conservatives
about to attain power
for many eleven years of domination
privatising and taking hold.
I arrived to make my mark,
shabby, careworn and sick at heart
twenty five on the calender
though eight years old within.
Through horn-rimmed eyes they acknowledge me
mouths averted in disdain
I vote in anger, frustration and isolation,
insular, impotent and out of step.
I walk out quickly
hanging my head
their banter
becoming mercifully more faint.
They belong to the human race
while I am a lost being.
Their family circle
controls them in love
clasping with hands they always
take for granted.
Barriers between us
rigid, teak-timber fittings,
crocodile-skinned emotions
I'd love them to want me
but to no avail.
They tally up,
and take the total
leaving out the hand-chilled urchin
phantom of yesterday's infant.
MARION
Marion smiled like a china doll
her hips gyrating at a frantic rate.
She was the one who could do the Twist
long-lissom, ten-year-old legs
clad in their first pair of brown stockings.
Everyone watched in fun-filled envy
Chubby Checker crunched and crackled
from the aging record player
until Mr Williams lifted off the arm.
Another boy could play guitar
some would dress as minstrels
Marion exuded sunshine everywhere she went
and as bright, shiny May became joyous June,
the talent contest belle
took to the running track
leaving the others in a cloud of dust
as her spring heels
powered her on towards fulfilment.
TWO BICYCLES
Two bicycles leaning on a lonely hedge
of close-cropped holly
forever bereft of berries.
Scuff-marks on the paintwork
though their tyres are well-pumped
and the chains carefully oiled.
Keeping each other company
while suffering their annual ordeal
inside the house which was never a home,
where torn and desperate decorations
hung heavily above a lop-sided tree,
and the sitting room clock is silent -
its hands afraid to move.
Clumsily handled sherry glasses
laughter from a hollow heart.
Central heating which dries the air
but leaves the bones still frozen.
The loving couple shift uncomfortably
on a rigid sofa which aches their backs
until deliverance arrives 9 o'clock
and they leave that sham behind.
The night is clean and crisp and clear
a friendly moon beams down.
They cycle slowly along familiar roads
Fairy lights winking from
chequer-curtained windows
their duty done for another year.
Twenty-five Christmas Eves
of companionship and joy
are memorably set behind them.
Brother-in-law mocks
their two-wheeled progress
as he wipes the frost
from his company car.
But when they reach their own little lane
blood begins to warm once more
bikes at rest inside a shed
safe from that prickling hostile hedge.
Joyful bells peel from the centre of town
a special star gazes down at the couple
as they look up in gladness
at a bright brimming sky
laden with fine, perfect jewels
the only kind they will ever need
the ones which bring true fortune.
DECEMBER PALETTE
Colours in my December palette
on that first Tuesday afternoon
when I took time out from deed and duty
and placed my easel on the lawn.
Blue for the days of loneliness,
thick blankets that stretched
through angry adolescence and beyond.
White of the chilly frost mantle
which settled on the resting country
not to relent until March.
Gold where the flames
which spread from our hearthside
enveloping me
into one flourish of childhood wonder
dissolving into reddened embers.
Black for all the thwarted dreams
failed hopes, dead ends
and stillborn ambitions
nerve endings which perished
to leave lifeless and dusty skin.
Colours beneath a low sun
grown weary with the year.
Tears shed into paint pots
lightening their tones.
One freeze later sees an older boy
whose brush bristles faded away.
THE GAZEBO
Sun-filled summer evenings
spent sitting in striped folding chairs,
looking out through open doors
onto a world about to change.
You left before time,
back to your busy city
with its rushing ball games.
I was about to find a new way
hurried by an unrestrained calendar.
Our gazebo
magnified rays of a perfect sun
already stealing away
imperceptibly lower than the night before.
In the glass I saw you
as a benevolent shadow
unmocking, becoming part of my orbit
and on those warm raindrop evenings
it kept us safe and dry.
Three shiny windows
views of a fading life that never was.
Freedom days, time to think
space to circulate, encouragement to speak.
June became July
and with it solitude
musing on your departure
imagining what you would have said.
Night moths stuck to abandoned webs
inside the gazebo
trapped by lack of foresight
and disappointment's inevitability.
A SEVENTH SUMMER
A bottle of pop
ten chubby fingers
and a sun-filled August afternoon
waiting without patience for the downtown bus,
hands clenched inside blue flannels
clutching coins carefully conserved
to be traded for tangy sherbet powder.
Toyshops appear on every corner
red-stripe slanting sale labels
not enough time for a six-year-old to wonder
summer holidays would soon pass.
A packet of plain crisps
salt-bag tucked into a bottom corner
he stands in the evening garden
as crickets start to sing.
Freckle-faced boy
resists the creeping shadow of sleep
which tries to take its precious time.
Impatient for tomorrow morning
and its many incalculable wonders
hiding behind fluffy feather-cloud
set to awaken with all the gladness
of a boy
in his three-hundredth week of life.
AT PENTECOST
Spirit has risen
high to heaven
February's promise fulfilled
all those timid leafless branches
drawn into glory by the rising force.
In fifty days since Eastertide
landscape has turned to velvet green
pastel creams and yellows
now lie asleep for summer
beneath the woodland floor.
Bud burst, new growth
and bulging hedges
nests filled,
warbler song from the spinney
meadows dotted with golden buttercup stars,
winding river stretching
its strands of eel-grass
dense cover upon the green hill.
All of this instigated
by the Holy breath of completeness,
the ever-loving light
which casts invisible rays
affirmation that the Godly spirit
guides and gathers
every speck of creation.
It is there in the grassland
in condensation from its plumes
wondrous spectre
climbed to the pinnacle
casting a mantle of benevolence.
We set our eyes from the sky
in safety that brought
such lush colour
and triumphant tranquillity
Praise Be
for the feast of Pentecost.
JULY THUNDERSTORM
Yet another summer night
with no fresh air to breathe
week after sultry, sweating week
atmosphere jelly-thick with heat prickles
Invisible insects scratch at my face
a circle of sweat formed below my collar
Friday supper time
clouds dropped lower
closing in for the kill.
Final flecks of daylight
disappeared westwards
allowing darkness its brief midsummer reign
then lying in bed
gazing through a curtain slit
I heard the ceiling crackle with the first rumble
constipated clouds at last relieved
a rampant deluge hits the parched, scoured soil
swept along gutters
then down through drainpipes
away into channels unknown.
Raindrops bounced off concrete paths
a fever broken
jagged streaks of lightning rocketed to earth
illuminating my bedroom
into a ghost train-ride.
I counted the seconds between flashes and claps
then lost track of numbers
amidst yet more savage electric surges.
One endless hour later
cloud collisions became intermittent
glaring night-lights faded out
and fresh, cool air,
moist enough to drink
blew in through open windows
bringing with it relief.
A tormented sky which could bear
its grief no longer
and so cried out its agony
onto the land below
killing calm indifference
with a mighty flood
re-asserting heavenly power
over everything terrestrial.
CANDLE AND GLASS
Another full, satisfying
working week is over
there is laughter in the street
of a cheery seaside town.
Pub doors are open
revellers rush inside,
colours dash along strands of light bulbs
mounted on the quayside
lighthouse flashes in the far distance,
vinegar scents the air.
They sit at a corner table
in a quiet restaurant
entranced in each other's gaze
on their flower-decked table
candles burn, swaying
at the slightest rush of air
beautifully distorted flames
beam back at them
from the patterned wine goblets.
He speaks, she absorbs
every word and nuance
she smiles, giggles
like a schoolgirl.
His heart gladdens,
the future will be theirs
when festivities of courtship
give way to practicalities
of a life shared
with all its achievements and
inevitable setbacks and misdemeanours.
Holidaymakers are out for the evening
or heading back to hotel,
cottage or chalet.
A hazy moon softly
beckons the tides,
white waves cares the foreshore
then slip back as surf.
Harbour lights search out
midsummer mists
drifting above the water.
Friday night at the holiday town
week now finished,
ebbed of duty
has flowed back to leisure
and restoration
bringing with it
hope and excitement
stretching -
out to the horizon.
CARNATION
Chalk spring waters rise
from a shrouded hilltop
and seep down through white porous rocks
into verdant, buttercup-speckled fields
where the Carnation cow
grazes contentedly
ruminating on green strands of nourishment
generated from goodness
that is created by gentle motions.
June again
and clean, clear liquid
burbles up from its endless source
lime-less water caresses your lips
and slips down your throat
purifying, moistening
adolescent summer's nectar,
gracious, bovine faith restored.
MISS ALISON
On Tuesday afternoons long ago
As winter turned to spring
She sat facing our school piano
'Miss Alison' the name we knew her by.
An awkward elephant of a woman
Square-set shoulders, a heavy jaw
And deep-pink horn rimmed spectacles
Resignation covered her face
Of twenty years piano pumping
With thick, pudgy ringless fingers
Resonant renderings of traditional tunes
Sounded out from the little hall.
I hardly ever heard her speak
A muted Margaret Rutherford figure
She cared little for boys and girls
Her brown, weary eyes followed the music dots
While her hands filled in the spaces.
Miss Alison lived through two world wars
An ebullient teenager in the first
Then as a woman breaching middle age
Her prospects wrecked
On some far-off foreign shore.
Beneath her woolley cardigan
Her white silk blouse
And austere stocking tops
Beat a heart that no-one saw
As we took her tunes for granted.
Every well-scrubbed cherubic face
Was a potential grandchild never born
And when we gave our thanks at the end
She scratched a corner of her eye
For that familiar speck of grit returned
Every Tuesday afternoon
As the heavy lid fell shut.
THE FINAL EMBERS
You grew yourself a forest
Of many beautiful trees
You fed and watered, nurtured them
And sprayed against disease.
When they reached maturity
You had them cut as lumber
Heavy branches, mighty boughs
All were split asunder.
Pines were shaped into chairs and tables
Oaks were riven as posts
White willow logged into firewood
A cosy room for glad hosts.
The log pile stood twenty yards high
and eighty feet across
The wood disposed of piece by piece
Leaving scraps of bark and moss.
The last limbs burned
By that threadbare hearth
Throughout insipid heat
Withered members cracked and dry
Their cycle now complete.
You staggered despairingly towards the grate
Unable to gain your breath
Nothing remains of your glorious plan
Just damp, cold ashes and death.
PERPETUAL BIRDS
Wings have turned full circle
Bring us back beneath the same roof.
Once it was sparrows and starlings
Distracting me outside the classroom window.
Now it is more special birds
In zoom-lens close-up
On a ceiling-suspended
Canvas film-sheet.
You , retired , stand behind
Unable now to admonish me
As a fully fledged adult
I flap on past
Leaving you perched in position.
Feathers are about to fly for me
Just peaceful contentment for you,
On a roost
High above the aviary
Where you can watch your nestlings
Beating hard against the bird house.
FOOT FALL
On a cold, grey weekday afternoon
In early March
I walk the pavements of housing estates
That cover the ground
where farms used to be -
I feel the foot fall of men
Who worked this land
During five hundred years or more.
Deep within me, I hear the voices
of cowmen, urging their herd
out of their byre and into the pastures.
When I close my eyes,
those cars creeping into driveways
and the roar of eastbound traffic
on the dual-carriageway
Is replaced by rhythmic clinking
of bridles upon rein-buckles
as working horses
dragged ploughshares
across the fertile soil.
On days like this
I long to step out of this
highly mechanised, computerised
mediocre world in which we are trapped
back to when mankind and nature were in harness.
Lives were often shorter then,
though richer , more fulfilling
and accomplished
when activities were controlled
by the elements,
rooks and crows in families
gleaned grain and insects
from the turned earth.
Oaks and elms outlined
the landscape
field maple , hazel and holly
filled in between.
Every springtime hedgerow
teemed with joyful chirping
of new bird life
no-one minded their insular lives
self-contained within the farm,
just an occasional trip
to the nearest village
or on grand occasions
even to the market town.
Perhaps the ghosts of farming men
return to this site,
stepping awkwardly
over flagstones and kerbs
trundling uncertainly
across residential roads
and long to
reclaim the heritage and honour
bestowed upon them
by creation's greatest force.
FLYING HIGH
Their vapour trails drifted
merging into benign
cirrus and altocumulus
So becoming a part
of the endless cycle.
Silver-grey iron solid bodies
ducked and wove,
seeking shelter behind grey clouds
as enemy combatants
traversed the North Sea
on their missions
of fascist supremacy
and destruction.
As England bathed
beneath a golden sun-spread summer
shells were shot from both directions
bringing metal birds down into the ocean
their crews burned, bleeding
or about to drown.
Nearly five years were to pass
from those tremendous battles
to a time of peace
once more in the homeland.
Memories would remain forever
among those who had fought
or endured
while those of us born too late
to have known it
would conjecture
at the mighty, unseen power
that made it come right -
in the end.
HEALING ANGEL
A silver, glittering angel
fell from heaven last night
and lingered,
flapping her wings
in the dark sky
above ash trees, conifers
and sleeping buildings below.
She was sent as a saviour
to a frightened man
awaiting a great ordeal.
She flew invisibly
through the hospital walls
settling on his shoulders
just before he fell asleep.
Morning arrived —
the angel had vanished
leaving behind
her promise of reassurance.
The patient accepted his fate
as a great adventure
and closed his eyes again.
Now free in heart
light of footsteps,
rescued by his heavenly guide.
A little time passed
and he slipped away slowly —
safe onto the other side.
WESTERING
Cold uncaring shiver was repeated
from one freezing day to the next,
so we sought sanctuary
away to the west
- in the land of seals and smugglers.
Three weeks into an uncertain year
innovation and expectation beckoning.
We stepped onto the foreshore
by a secret, ancient cove
where waters help the soft breath
of a kind Atlantic wind
which cut a multitude of white sand channels
beneath solid granite rocks.
A thousand unseen eyes
watched from mossy crag-cracks
gulls and guillemots soared above.
Lights flashed from a motor launch
over on the far horizon.
Snowdrops, ventured bravely
through melting frost.
While lapping waters in the bay
began their periodic turn
as the hidden moon called and caressed the waves homeward.
Surely as springtime follows winter
change was spreading eastwards
turtle-true primroses resurrected
new lemon-pastel life.
Whipped-cream Cornwall surf
lapped at their ankles
as they faced a sunset
rounder and more rosy
than they had ever dared expect.
RUTS
Every cart must have a donkey
to haul it through the mud
cutting tyre-tracks
deep into brown earth
pitted, rutted trails of progress.
When those gullies become too deep
you try to climb their walls
but fall back to the bottom
dirtier, wetter and wiser.
What cannot rise just carries on
sinking lower as feet grow heavy
when rain appears you begin to drown
though your head somehow
keeps bobbing up til arid days of dust and drought
crack the trench beneath you
then at last, a way out appears
for your blistered, vein-canals
to an unknown straight, smoother road ahead.
A LOSING GAME
(In memory of Amy Jade Winehouse
14-9-1983 to 23-7-2011)
She probably did not remember when darkness first covered her thoughts
Perhaps it was when she believed
Her parents had stopped loving each other.
Even as a young girl she found the right words
and as she absorbed heartfelt songs
by beehived, black American soul singers,
Melody and rhythm became hers as well.
Amy was kind, funny, petulant and mischievous.
More than anything she craved
deep, unconditional everlasting love.
Infatuations came and went,
preparation perhaps for the genuine feeling
if only it had arrived.
Her songs were played around the world
Record sales went gold
Mercury Music Awards and Grammies
Were bestowed on her
The one time ‘nervous waif’ poured out her deepest feelings on stage
to thousands of admirers at a time.
Then her demon returned,
more cruel and vengeful than ever
Soul-deep pain brimmed behind her eyes,
She turned to alcohol and narcotics
to suppress that insidious beast
her words deserted her when she needed them the most
fans looked away in disappointment
close friends lost faith
Photographers concentrated their cameras
upon her heavy, dark-shadowed eyes
and the ever increasing rash of tattoos
scored into her self-slashed emaciated arms.
Booing from her former followers
grew so loud she could not rest
Complex images, once well-formed and moulded into songs
became a dreadful cacophony within
Love turned sour one last time
Rehabilitation did not work,
and that aching voice cried itself out
Her life had become a losing game
and on an overcast midsummer Saturday,
Amy slipped out of this existence,
though she will never again be alone
as many more have died because of love
and others surely will --
one way or another.
SWITCHING OFF
Now that you have gone
every love song has lost its meaning
soulful voices, tender lyrics
and cascading strings
would once set me aglow,
only now I just hear words —
familiar rhymes that I pull to pieces
criticise, analyse, cringe
at their over-familiarity.
All this because
it somehow makes me feel better,
revenge taken on the romantics
who always get it right,
walking away with their lover
as the final bars begin to close.
Now that you have gone
I will abandon music
in favour of speech stations,
to hear frustrated housewives
and tetchy pensioners
venting their spleens on anything
from the price of petrol
to seaweed smells,
just a brief spell of parity,
disappearing when the programme ends.
Now that you are gone
the radio is once more my closest friend
and I become
disconnected, devoid of reason,
channel hopping
gleaning odd moments of aural interest
static hissing, sounds distorted
maximum interference —
until close down.
WALLISWOOD WELL
In the village centre
On a piece of green land
The historic well is situated
Its stones sheer and slippery
Mouth obscured by a paving slab.
Semolina algae brickwork walls
Are never dry even on the hottest day.
Its shaft descends deeply
Into the Earth’s bowels,
Where secret springs
Are formed from bubbles
The ultimate mystery of existence.
Water, upon which life depends,
Was drawn from this well
For thousands of years.
It would be boiled for drinking
Put into tubs then cleansed peoples’ skins,
Poured upon camp fires at midnight
Long before mains supply,
Now just a wrist-turn away.
This hallowed orifice has been sealed
So it claims no life in recompense
For those sustained and safe
Through the ages of its use.
Walliswood Well is now a monument
Most of its brickwork smashed away
And even if a flowering tree
Was planted on top
Still the subterranean process
would continue
Constant flow finding other channels.
Elements are eternal
All streams, springs and rivulets
Are indestructible,
If concrete submerges them
They escape even further down.
A SAD SEAHORSE
There he stands — unwanted, bewildered
out of place
In a Lifeboat shop window.
Artefacts of family holidays
surround him,
Beach balls, buckets and spades,
windbreaks.
Customers buy these objects every day
But they barely give him a glance.
Just nine inches high,
Sad eyes facing the ocean
Long-billed, brown-crested,
A forlorn mane
Runs along the backbone
Of this strange “baby dragon.”
He arrived in April,
on one of the first warm days
At the whim of a lady buyer
Who pitied his winsome computer image.
He saw summer creep in,
Grey sea going gradually blue.
Warm air and salt winds sedate him
As he watches pleasure boats
Encircle the island and sail joyfully home.
His future sits uncertainly
Just one inquisitive boy
Asks his mother
What the “funny little animal” is called.
Heat of July leads on
Into humid August
Crowded beaches and
Heaving pavements
Then September’s cooler westerlies
appear.
Swimmers and sunbathers
Wrap up their towels and Soltan
And make their way home.
This shy, plaintive being remains
Perhaps to be discarded later
Or take his place
On the display stand once more,
To face another lonely summer.
OUT OF THE CLOUDS
High above the clouds
looking down through layered vapour patterns.
Thursday flight eastwards
on an early afternoon
brimming with springtime promise.
February's final frozen finger days
fading into the abstract assessment
that we refer to as memory.
Bright-button smiles,
of svelte stewardesses
administer closely to our needs
cups run high with dark, rich coffee
reclining seats
and starched, white head-rests.
A window to view
across countless, unknown miles
to a point where the horizon
takes it away without explanation,
forcing us to content ourselves
with visions already provided.
WHAT IS A SOUL?
What is a soul?
he asked himself
in a stone-cold kitchen
homely with the dust of comfort
alive with a friendly buzz.
His grandfather's dictionary
bearing John Bull's name
was brought out of its cloistered cupboard
so his question may be answered.
What is a soul?
he asked his elders,
recalling a neighbour recently dead.
had his soul risen ceremoniously
through temperamental springtime clouds
on its way to a resting place
far from human vision?
The answers given were unrevealing evasive and condescending
he was as yet
too young to understand
untarnished, honest, pure in heart.
So he sought the solution for himself
scoured between soil and sky
deep down inside himself.
His lifetime mission avowed intent
was to discover that elusive organ
- which others called a soul.
THE WORLD TOMORROW (April 1966)
The world tomorrow,
incomprehensible,
unattainable
as distant as Venus
and as unintelligible
as Radio Luxembourg sounded
during the day.
Every evening as foreign pop finishes
Garner Ted Armstrong
speaks on the air
foretelling a time of future certainty
tucked away behind folded clouds
when those who have passed the earthly test
will walk hand-in-hand through eternity
untroubled, free of worldly wounds
- spiritually complete.
His pearl-string words
tumble into my mind
and glisten inwardly as night time comes.
Music is the medium
of both solace and stimulation
warm, tender harmonies of fine feelings
and melodies too powerful to need any words.
The world tomorrow
will be no different
from the one I know today
those around me older, greyer,
still tied to duties and inhibition
shackling their creativity
but keeping this great world turning.
DEW
The love that bursts free from me is unbidden,
but I need its deep release.
Passion unwanted, unrewarded
drying in the morning breeze.
Your love
rises and falls
surf tumbling over silver rocks
but meeting the wrong river.
Dew can never last
Its bubbles burst
before it can melt into atmosphere,
to descend once more
in the private calm of early hours
refreshing green shoots
waiting to discover
the reason for their existence.
WHERE VIOLET GROWS
Flowers flourish in the warm caress of Spring.
A mauve violet, early blooming
bright from within circles of gold
that are born from true love.
Every primrose petal nurtured
into full-blossomed maturity of its own.
Now flowers are spent,
leaves brown and curled
sap sinking into withered roots
hiding beneath the soil.
Tears of remembrance
bathe dust from the crinkling form
of life that can never end.
Violet resides in eternal sunshine
strolling through familiar fields of untold wonder,
just as they were then,
spotted by buttercups and vivid green
holding hands with her handsome husband
surrounded by the six children of their long and joyful union.
Church bell chimes the hour
pink-crested jay
flaps between treetops of guardian oak.
Bluebells in the lover’s wood
never fade into summer repose
and the spreaded sweet violet
exudes her heavenly fragrance
out into an endless atmosphere
of peacefulness and calm.
SCARED OF SPARKLERS
Orange flashes streaked the sky
rifle-fire bangers
resounded through the night.
An elegant Roman candle
feigned failure, than sprang to life
cascading neon sparks
nullified by contact with the earth.
Bandit-holster jumping jacks
followed him in mischief.
Night-light flaming touch-paper tab
chased the boy around his garden.
Violet volcano fire
seared and hummed
then collapsed, expended beside him.
A glowing chequerboard of constellations
spread out above like a treasure map.
Modest bonfire burned purposefully on
while all the others
had flared and flourished
before regressing into embers.
Scared of sparklers
drawing illumination from a coloured box
his Catherine wheel would not rotate
but hissed and cursed itself
into an angry frazzle
languishing at his feet.
He stepped indoors
red-ruddy warm,
as crimson balls’ distant fire
gradually faded from view.
Darkness hung lightly
as saltpetre’s peppery aroma
masked the innocent atmosphere.
He kept those pyrotechnics
at careful arm’s length
and let them crackle on without him
until an inevitable deluge
turned the ashes to a sudden mass,
part of one inaccessible mud-field
littered with corpses of yesterday’s fireworks
pathetic reminders of high-flown evenings - -
multicoloured memories.
BENNIE
He waited for me by the cycle barriers
blue-green rails of tarnished metal
where our school path met the pavement.
He recognised me straight away
kind gentle eyes alert
grey flecks now invading
his sooty-black fur.
Long, slender tapering tail
ending in a white rapier tip,
the whole thing wagging in perpetual rhythm
as he rubbed against my shins.
Five paces behind my feet he followed
his footsteps clicking reassuringly
he stepped aside to let prams pass by
but never averted his gaze from me.
A stream of light carried me along
my first realisation of empathy
harmonic understanding of other life
and where I stood in relation to it.
We safely made the lollipop crossing
and he turned to bid goodbye,
with a flick of his chin
and a cold, damp nose
brushing against my hand.
Walls came between us
but the light remained
our lives linked, separately though interwoven,
a bow-legged mongrel
ever-loyal, compassionate and punctual.
I WISH I WERE A FISH
I wish I were a fish again
the way I used to be aeons ago.
I would rest near the river bottom
flapping my dorsals,
caressing the sandy pebbles
with my pectoral flippers.
There would be no need
for complicated courtship,
meeting a mate
would be almost automatic
our spawn then discreetly effused
would cling to willow-moss
until biological magic
could turn that semolina mass
into new piscatorial life.
If I were a fish
my end may come suddenly
snaffled by a predatory pike,
or tricked into capture
on an angler's hook
then thrown back bloody-mouthed
unable to eat
weakened towards death
In a few blurry-eyed hours.
No lingering end then for me
no fading away
dressed up and laid out
mourned for a month
remembered in some ill-posed photographs
taking against my will.
I would love to be a fish,
perhaps a ruff or a prickly perch.
I would scour the murky river bed
and feathery eel-weed
feeding on scraps and smaller fishes
so no more beef steaks
no lamb chops or casseroled chicken,
my needs now spartan,
my aspirations low.
So just one thing
has changed through the centuries
to make me what I am today
somehow, some way, somewhere -
I seem to have lost my fins.
MONASTERY
Unrucked manes, combed and plaited
bridle-shone on Sunday afternoon.
Sacred bell hangs steady in the tower
until called upon to announce Evensong.
Two black-frocked, steady-gazing priests
stand in the glebe
surveying their monumental fortress.
Starling song begins
from high on the apex.
Blue-bright sky interminable,
endless above
creates flashing, fading
shapes before their eyes.
First signs of coming Spring
are from scarved, hooded figures
ambling around the field edge.
Golden Cross
high above the monastary entrance.
Dark, heavy, cask-oak door
free from January icicles
sits on it's latch
for warm, benevolent
hand to push open,
and for broad, honest hearts
to be filled.
AFTER THE NEWS
After the news came the expectation,
the realisation
then the confirmation
that one personal strand
would soon be undone
and cast into the void of mortality.
A grey fog risen
hanging over my waking hours
while demons gnawed
at my next anxious night time,
keeping precious sleep at bay.
After the news came disbelief waves of horror
and tempered relief
that our all-forgiving father
would still accept an errant soul
who had slipped and lost his way.
Blue, bright afternoon
borrowed from springtime, six weeks on.
Austere cubicle on the second floor
where a tactful consultant reveals the worst
and a helper nurse with a Kleenex box
tries to mop the pain away.
After the news came the journey back through a line of headlights,
in front and and behind,
stretching determinedly all the way home
formed by loving sons, fathers,
sisters, brothers, mothers.
And a lost free soul caught midstream
so unattached within.
BEECHES
Right in the heart of St Leonard's forest
a family cluster of beech trees
prepare to shed once more
neat, coppery leaves
similar in colour to iron
which once was mined from this ground,
as autumn season gives way
to the rasping ravages of winter.
The patriarch tree, standing majestically
seventy feet above Greenslade Wood
dwarfing everything but the oaks,
its bark peeling from the effects
of two hundred years or more
onslaught from the elements.
Its lower trunk has been
scored into by generations of young men
carving their initials with penknives
giant roots running,
gnarled and twisted along the forest floor
gouging yellow clay from underneath
as if seeking escape
from inevitable mortality.
Slightly younger beeches stand
in deference
around the big trees' incomparable girth
depositing mast from multi-stemmed fingers
down onto the arboreal earth.
On the ground lie smaller specimens
stems snapped
when November gales of earlier years
came reaping.
These trunks are now soft and pithy,
colonised by mycorrhizal fungi
starting to be consumed
by woodlice and other insects,
all transforming the mush
into lesser matter,
its perpetuation process now complete.
Some centenarians lie horizontal
in woodlands' soft bedding,
lacking strength
to raise their stems skyward,
desperately clinging to life
like terminal patients
who can only measure their existence in months.
We can just imagine
the stories these trees could tell,
firstly of woodsmen and charcoal burners
itinerants and gypsies
camped beneath their adolescent silver boughs
on moon- full Victorian nights, then sensing war as young men
of various countries clashed,
acquisition of more territory
being their ultimate objective.
Those trees could describe first seeing grey streamlined
wings that never need to flap
gliding through the sky,
their roars far louder
than the most raucous avian cry.
They witnessed many lovers' trysts
made under dense, gentle branches' shade
on early Summer Sunday afternoons,
promises kept, though many reneged upon
passion consummated
between bracken's nascent tongues,
some welcomed, many forbidden,
nostalgia now for those
who have only such memories
to sustain them
recalling trees in the forest's heart
many upright still
others interminably broken.
THE FINAL KEY
Rummaging through my key tin
silently allocating each one
to its particular door or padlock,
I find myself left with a Yale,
well-used, scuffed,
rust formed on its levers
tarnished by time
though still reflecting morning light.
I turn and fondle it,
roll against my palm.
My index finger
feels somehow comfortable
turning inside its slot.
For this is a back door opener
to the house in which I grew up
where love was given sincerely,
and in good faith
but somehow turns to poison
when greed, envy, aggression and spite
conspired to banish
all normal ways of development
away from our address.
Inside that house
terrifying anger raised its head
new life was cruelly flooded away
before it could be fully formed,
while heartache and disillusion
took more than their share of tenure,
particularly through my formative years.
I look at the object
and recall
teenage nights when I used to
let myself in
quietly and furtively
only to be betrayed by a careless footstep
or the mewl of a welcoming cat.
That house was demolished
by yellow, metal machines
turned into rubble
and taken away,
to lie beneath concrete foundations
in another part of town.
The only lock
this key can now open
is the door of yesterday,
mixed, mellow memories
some cherished, others recalled with pain
though all providing lessons learned.
For this reason
the final key can remain in my drawer,
a memento of chances offered
some taken willingly -
others left to rust.
AN EARLY SUNDAY MORNING
Pealing bells greeted me
on that sunbeam-blessed morning.
I opened my curtains
and they resonated louder and more clearly.
I saw people passing by,
some alone,
but families also,
gentlemen in light grey spring suits
ladies wearing respectable hats
all strolling towards church
past the grass bank
clothed with primroses,
and if I stretched out far enough,
I could just make out the steeple.
Below my bedroom window
Was our garden,
privet hedged on three sides
that garden whose every inch
I had searched and scoured,
finding insects underneath stones
digging roadways with a tiny trowel
and imagining the bears and badgers
who would shelter there at night.
All was harmony
in that little southern town
mid-March, early spring,
voices of war
silent then for twelve years.
To the south beyond the main road
and it's line of town houses
lay the Weald
and the South Downs,
places I would later explore
and come to love.
But then I was just four years old,
my own world
reached no further
than the town centre.
Toyshops, Chart and Lawrence,
Woolworth's, Timothy White's
and that fishmonger's in East Street
where haddock, cod and mackerel
lay face-up on metal trays,
then the old market place
where on Saturday afternoon
I would be bought a colourful comic
only if I had been well behaved.
Everything then
was as close as possible
to perfection.
Ladies sang bright, tuneful
songs on the wireless.
I knew nothing then of worries,
of fear, isolation, misunderstanding,
danger or doubts.
I thank God for that child's world
of gentle sunshine, new discoveries
and celestial sounds
that wafted through my ears
and settled inside my being
For always.
TOUCHING THE PINES
[ This poem achieved second place in the Decanto Open Poetry Competition 2010 ]
I touched those pines again today
slats of bark felt just the same
as those that tore skin
from my tiny fingers
when I scrabbled around
to explore them
as a curious five-year-old.
They then seemed like skyscrapers,
my neck ached
as I gazed towards their summit.
I collected cones for no real reason
except they reminded me
of little brown pineapples.
I stuck them in a drawer
disregarded.
Many other matters came and went
those cones dried out
fragmented and died
finally destroyed on a Guy Fawkes bonfire.
More fortunate cones
found their way into the soil
took root and sprouted stems,
upright fern-fronds
safe in a corner.
Those tall pines remain
strong and streamlined as ever
showing no inclination to topple down.
Their progeny caught up,
and now stand beside them
tops nodding
in the same south-westerly September breeze.
I can still touch these pines
but I could never climb them,
force of gravity
fear of falling
and lack of footholds
conspiratorial in their efforts
to keep my feet
firmly on the ground.
TO SANCTUARY
A cold , heartless November wind
blew across from the North Sea.
Urban chill cloaked the pavements,
people walked in winter coats
buttoned up to their collars.
The bus pulled pulled out at three o'clock
with a tortured figure on board
bound for the retreat at Brentwood,
at the other end of twisting
leaf-shed lanes.
Numbed into lethargy by barbiturates
ghostly white skin
and hair slicked back Ratso style.
David fails to notice
the archways of oaks
which the double-decker brushes
as its tyres slurp through countless puddles
of winter rain, falling with subtle monotony.
Caring hands upon his shoulder
his sister tucks in his scarf
a white monster mansion
appears through iron portals
hopes rise for sickness's cure,
for this is the hallowed hospital
where suffering spirits need not cry alone.
The corridors were long and shiny
constantly trodden by shuffling feet
ceilings high look down upon patients
grey, unshaven, mumbling,
wailing like banshees
pushing a tea trolley on twisted tyres.
David sat on a padded bench
staring at the Dettol floor,
sweating hands clasped together,
body shaking with apprehension.
Darkness fell on the abode of rest
and all the lights came on.
His loved ones hugged him and bade goodbye
then we rushed to catch a bus ride home.
David's face pressed against the glass pane
haloed in rain tears
which fell from the sky of a year turned weary.
A gentle nurse led him to a dormitory
her eyes alight with benevolence.
Reassurance was in her touch, understanding of the wheels within
which clog and rattle from improper use
and whine unoiled
in shaded corners.
CROCUSES IN THE CHURCHYARD
Crocuses in the churchyard show
where love lies sleeping
In a peaceful haven .
Broad-petalled blooms
enticed to open by Springtime sun
pass their peak of profusion
and slowly prepare
for forth coming summer slumber.
On Autumn days you visited her grave
and clipped away
the season's final grass straggles
through cold, joyless Winter months
you placed plastic flowers
into dainty Chinese painted urns
and set them into the soil.
Oh, how long those dark evenings seemed
with only fire-glow for company .
Reliving laughter, recalling confidences
thinking of unnecessary
angry words exchanged.
Then lengthening days
made you feel slightly stronger
and able to act the way you had before.
Now in the friendly month of new living,
warm reassurance spreads over you
you speak in slow whispers
to a listening headstone,
flowering jewels take your greetings to her
gold stars of celandine,
pastel pale primroses
wild as the wind
just as she used to be.
You leave the country graveyard
with plans for planting in Summer.
Bright patterned pansies
will be close to her then
she lies at deserved rest
beneath sweet, brown Springtime soil
with flowers still her friends
the way they were
when she breathed above.
Crocuses in the churchyard
golden, white, speckled and mauve
joyful reward for faith asserted
colours shining clear
beneath a blue, honest sky.
You are with her each Saturday
kneeling in reverence
now knowing beyond all doubt
that she is not alone.
VALENTINE SKY
Clasping clouds
chase across a darkening sky
covering the bashful moon
like tender hands
upon the flesh of his beloved.
Stars appear as glimmering jewels
while Winter daylight
fades once more into restful sleep.
His gloved fingers
lightly grip her coat-clad arm
as they gaze together
into distant history
which shines majestically
from countless constellations.
A mighty scheme
consummately set out before them.
Her eyes reflect such wonder
of moonbeams
in their unfettered moments.
His tempered strength and reassurance
guide her towards unity, forever safe.
Cold brief-shower Saturday
a night's full , Valentine sky
love which began in a village hall
has expanded
into vast, endless realms
confirmation of eternal purpose
a priceless gift for two similar souls.
Standing on the threshold
of life's greatest-ever adventure
where so many millions have stood before.
Alone together, self-contained,
all-observing, goodwill blessing
time suspended, breathing deep.
Immune from chill, immersed in planning
for endless future on a pleasing plain.
HAND-BELL STILL RINGS
When I first heard the school bell ring
I was an apprehensive infant
on a misty, damp September morning
squeezing uncomfortably
through a scuffed-blue iron gate
to a little building set apart
bounded by green lawns
and concrete bunkers filled with coal.
That hand-rung bell
soon became more friendly
as I grew and learned, explored, investigated,
discovered answers to someone else’s questions
convincing myself
that I somehow must be the same.
Adolescent peals gave way to wedding bells
forging my connection to a similar soul
then duties arrived, worries and imagined ills,
cold scales of grief
weighing out my share.
Electric tills, buzzers and beepers
cruel night time telephones
rasping their tragic news.
Quaint, calming town hall clocks
reverentially confirming each hour
to secure, settled families and friends
industrious in their glad achievements.
Now there is just the hollow sound
of a hand-bell shaken by some weary wrist
beneath the din of interactive traffic
and the all-consuming silent spread
of people bound by collective unconscious.
The hand-bell hits those two familiar notes
not strident, nor musical
forever restricted by a short knot of rope.
I hear it in the distance
from a tree-covered hill
or rising out of a valley bottom
desperately calling me back.
In those tiny years it rang for a purpose
ends and beginnings
giving structure to those precious times.
Today’s bell is muffled,
continuing unbidden,
fading to an even lesser chime
though carrying on
to some unknown mornings, behind the fog
of disillusion and doubt.
The above poem was Highly Commended in the Decanto
Poetry Competition 2009
ATLANTIC SUMMER
A rippling blue reflection of Heaven
wending ever-westwards
widening
as it it reaches more nearly
the wind-warmed expanse
of turning ocean
seal-basked along its beaches.
Multitudinous fragments of sand,
miniature shining crystals
jelled into dry honey dust
lodged between toes
and rinsed twice a day
at the golden moon's volition.
Drifting down stream,
souls and bodies at rest
waving to adventurers
who clip the waters
in pulsating speedboats
surging against the waves direction.
Camel river's channel glides through the county
weaving between tors, rocky outcrops
and blonded cornfields
ripened,
ready soon for the harvester.
Red-bellied salmon
bearing spots of adulthood
lay spawn,
this progeny stuck precariously
to eel-grass tendrils
bending beneath the watery force.
Peace and perfection
sun- bronzed holidays
west country folk
whose future lies as open
as the estuary itself.
Part of the flow
without obligation
delighting in the company of cormorants,
sparkle-blue flashes of kingfisher
and scavenging gulls,
cunning and weary opportunists
feeding upon that which others leave behind.
Each section of river
distinct in its own character
though never self-contained
eternal, joyous heat of summer
tempered by calming
forehead-balming Atlantic breezes
pastoral symphonies within
evoked and uplifted
held aloft
half between sky and water
accompany merry travellers
whose voyage of discovery
streams calmly
towards fulfilment.
Allan Smith
THE ISLAND WITHIN
When Autumn descends upon the country
tired oak leaves from your guardian ring
will fall upon the hallowed isle
and lie upon fragrant humus
formed from a thousand bouquets.
Hopeful acorns then taken root
will shelter from adversity
awaiting their chance to begin a journey
towards the infinite sky.
When sharp winter winds
cut in from the north like angry jibes,
you shall lie peacefully in eternal slumber
safe from the pounding
of vengeful storms
watching lake waters rise
up to the oval
gently lapping at its verdant banks
like lover's tongues
in long sought after sublimation.
Springtime will come
with its sherbet - dusted hazel rods
and delicately scented primroses
their blooms made bigger
by the rotted remnants
of so many admirer's grief.
New life in the hawthorns
tadpoles wiggling in nature's revived miracle
joy of the lemon- yellow season shall abound.
Then Summer once more,
those oaks dense with foliage
shading you kindly
from fierce angry sun.
never again will your spirit be damaged
betrayed or neglected
harried or mocked
gentle Diana
at peace from all cruelty
on your childhood haven,
island within.
Allan Smith
TEAL ON THE WATER
My first glimpse of teal
Was as a young boy
It was on a tea-scented picture card
Carefully extracted
From its Brooke Bond packet for me.
I saw a little duck
Bronze-headed, panelled
In lime and emerald green
Rufous-cheeked, blue circled eyes
Silver feathers
Speckled in the sunlight.
These shades made
The baby-faced duck
Blend into a wintry landscape
I fell in love
With this most amiable of waterfowl
And longed to see
Some living teal one day.
Two thwarted generations later
I peer through the hinged window
Of a wooden bird sanctuary hide
Probing with binoculars for winter ducks
When a group of burnished faces
Bobbing on choppy freshwater waves
Rose like rockets above the lake
Swerved and veered above their reflection
Before alighting on reedy shallows —
This spring of teal
Newly arrived from Norway
Brought to life
That Bird Portrait illustration
From nineteen-fifty-seven.
I wrote down names
Of other ducks I saw
Pochard, gadwall, shelduck, wigeon
Remembering these also
From childhood photos
An unbelievable age ago.
It was my own failing
In not seeing them sooner
Allowing adolescence
And early adulthood
To slip by in a bird-less void
Of pop music, pleasure-seeking
And half-hearted courtship displays.
I had always believed
That early picture to be embellished
Like photographs of pot plants
In commercial catalogues
Colours seen intense in other people’s eyes
Faded greys and dowdy browns for me.
Those teal I saw
On a Saturday November morning
At last looked the same to me
As to other weekend bird lovers
Proud to have their progeny
Tenderly held above their knees
Themselves gazing through miniature goggles
Seeing the real birds straight away
Not needing to rely
On the words and illustrations of others
As they grow and develop
Full of wonder, free of fear.
Allan Smith
BLUE PRIMROSES
They arrived after coffee in a bottle-green, Commer van
and are carried across to wooden benches
to sit in state, awaiting worthy owners
like aristocratic cats abandoned in a refuge.
Blue primroses,
chest-close in Grimsby herring boxes,
loose-slatted but holding together
Victoria-blue flowers within
striking and sombre on a February day,
its damp chill filling the windless air,
sun obscured by a thousand layers of high grey cloud,
each plant set in its own clod of Sussex mud
cold and clammy, stuck beneath fingernails,
making them ache.
Soiling the coat-cuffs as plants are lifted out
to be re-spaced for improved presentation.
Their roots are thin, wiry but opportunistic
they delved deeply into former topsoil
to dredge up any goodness from below
leaves now firm and crinkly-green
snowy days behind us, springtime still to come.
Flower centres are off-yellow
dusky crowns contained within their dark-blue framework.
Such regularity can not be found in the wild,
just spring-sweet yellows as yet a spell away,
though buff-coloured hazel-rods hang in clusters
leaving damp sherbet-smears upon our coats
when we brush against them.
Blue primroses leave no trace,
deep and stark against bare boards.
Motorists see them as miniaturized sea-specks,
their season is short, their numbers are few
and when the sun triumphs over perpetual mists,
they will be done
planted into borders
gradually losing dominance
as reds and pinks come into flower
and those haunting colours are gone
which so epitomised the cupid month.
Blue, honest, true and consistent
tenacious enough to survive alone
though needing tender hands to make them flourish
keep their colour and grow new shoots.
Allan Smith
BY A THREAD
A yellow striped caterpillar rotating in its silken strand
Which dangles from an oak branch
In a summer forest come of age.
Dappled sunlight stretches down from a June sky
Brimming with the brightness
Of May time promise fulfilled.
A tiny creature wriggling,
Its body contracting and expanding
In accordion segments a black dot denoting its head.
Its life line had been woven from within
And now suspends this vulnerable creature
At risk from predators on the wing as it bravely holds position.
Thirty years have turned away
Endlessly into inner space
As I stand inside that wood again
And watch the same insect writhe.
Trees above me seemed much higher then
And life has continually contorted
Towards some perfect, unknown conclusion,
All existence hanging by a thread.
Allan Smith
BIRDS ARE BUSY
Birds are busy in hedge and tree
How I envy their industry
Gathering up any grub they see
So to gladly feed their progeny.
Nests are woven with skill and love
Wren uses feather down
Swallow moulds mud.
Timeless avian antics above
Chick-rearing instinct in their blood.
Six frantic weeks till the end of May
Sweet songs delivered
And eggs being laid.
Leaf cover growing denser day by day,
Let winds be gentle and owls stay away.
Mothers stuff food into babies’ beaks
Non-stop action through springtime weeks
Flying through farmstead forest and creeks,
In lowest marshland and highest peaks.
Blue tits hanging upside down
Starlings squawking in the heart of town.
Jay bird bold with a pink, raised crown
Humble dunnock spotted brown.
By midsummer’s night some fledglings fly
With hope and courage
Through a wide open sky.
While the wingless watch their lives flit by
And the heavy-feathered wonder and cry.
Birds are busy I long to be too
In a worthwhile cause that would carry me through
These barren skies and promises due
To that free-flowing skyway
I am sure I once knew.
Allan Smith