POETRY

EARLY TODAY

Early today, close by the border of night's dream, a thrush sang :
through thinning darkness before dawn I heard his song repeat.
Insistently he sang, scattering remnants of soft sleep,
commanding me, "Awake, awake."

The moon hung full and white above dark trees
and he had come this time, clear voiced on frosty air,
above snowdrops massed where in the snow he'd fed :
so thankful then for meagre gifts.

Now, on season's cusp, he has returned to claim domain
and share this benediction to the Spring.

    DAFFODILS FROM TESCO

Tight budded, boxed, stacked near the doors,
these extras for our shopping list
could’ve been missed as we walked in,
so focussed on the things we need...
But they were what we needed most :
a symbol of the coming Spring,
a spark of light, a ray of hope
to brighten up grey lockdown days.

Brown buds, green stems – not looking much,
their promise lived inside our heads;
placed in a vase in our warm house
still dormant by the time for bed.
Morning dawned, unremitting grey —
compounded by a freezing fog,
but in our hearth the Spring had sprung :
twelve daffodils trumpet the day —
a sunshine yellow glow ablaze.                                                                                                                                                             

WINDOWS OF MY MIND

Last night we were together in my dreams,
walking hand in hand through falling snow,
glistening Christmas lights were all around,
rainbow reflections showed the way to go.

The path led to a giant Christmas tree
where, gathered round, were family old and new,
with them, waiting, were all the family’s cats —
Phoebe, of course, had brought a tiny shrew.

Then, changing to a Christmas carousel,
these memories and love together bind;
it was you and me… Then suddenly I woke —
snowflakes fill the windows of my mind.

WOLF MOON

Dreams disturbed, I wake to a strange light
gleaming from January’s full moon,
spotlighting the pillows where I rest,
so focussed that you, in shadows, sleep.
Seen from the window, radiant moon
in the arms of the old apple tree —
pure white, luminous, round as a Host…
Elevation at this early Mass.
Somewhere from silence a vixen cries,
intones a Sanctus, craving a blessing
for what she has conceived…

FROST EPIPHANY

Cold air and moonshine :
white light on grass and trees
transforms at daybreak —
solidifies as frost.

Horses like statues —
frozen to the fields —
watch in an icy dawn
where their green world is white.
An orange sunrise —
framed in distant trees —
silhouettes the blackthorn hedge.
Everything just gleams :
the pastures glittering,
each twig and grass blade
frosted — so complete.

Fast striding up Larks Hill,
soft ground is summer firm.
Smoky bursts of breath,
fingers tingle; in my head
a song — the words inquire :
Isn’t he the God of creation?
And I am here alone,
humbled by this glory.

All around is freedom —
larger than the blue above…

WORD TO THE WISE

On the clock, life’s needle’s now past eighty
the passing days now seem to be a blur;
the seasons merge, judgements grow more weighty
as daily problems more frequently occur.

And yet, as life has tried to make me change,
deep down inside I’ve always stayed the same…
I feel sixteen, I know that may sound strange,
but being me has always been my aim.

Just as an oval ball will not bounce true,
you’ll lose if hard-earned skills decay and rust,
remember all the things that make you ‘you’ —
a counterfeit is not a thing to trust.

And what’s my point? — To save you from a con —
you won’t know what you’ve lost until it’s gone.

THE TURNING YEAR

It’s time to roll this old year up for good.
From here, it looks an unremitting grey
but, looking closer, signs from every day
are there like guides, if we just understood.

Beyond the scorch marks of old arguments,
passed rips and tears of illness and despair,
life’s carpet still remains in good repair…
Perhaps, for love and joy no testament —
while bright days may be few, they are still there
and moments of epiphany like jewels
help balance out the times that were so cruel,
making grey days much easier to bear.

So, looking back, there is still much to cheer,
‘Though twenty-four’s not been a vintage year.

THE TAXMAN, JACK AND THE GOLDEN EGGS
The beanstalk’s gone, the giant’s dead and word about Jack’s magic goose has spread…

Dear Mr. Jack,
We write again,
regarding tax on golden eggs.
We note and thank you for your views,
but Midas gold is not the same.

We understand, from what you’ve said,
that you expect one egg each day.
Please see below the formula
we use for taxing golden eggs.

An ordinary goose will lay
an egg that weighs one, forty grams.
Our experts say this is the same
as water in its density.
But gold, of course, is much more dense :
nineteen point three times more we’re told.

It follows then, your golden goose
produces eggs that weigh in grams
strictly two, seven, seven, nine –
assuming that it is pure gold.
(But purity’s not our concern –
please talk to colleagues at ASSAY,
you’ll find their number over page.)

Once hallmarked, we’d expect each egg
To measure eight, nine ounces (troy).
Gold is, of course, quite volatile –
its value moves from day to day –
but, working from the current rate
in thousands of our sterling pounds,
each egg is worth seven, eight, point five
(of course, this figure’s rounded down.)

Thus, annually, your eggs are worth,
in millions, twenty-eight point five
(Remember Leap Years’ extra charge.)
The rate of tax on such a gain
is laid out clearly – see Point 9.
Our detailed leaflet is enclosed.
So let me know of anything
you find with which to disagree –
Our Reference G.E. 923.

N.B. Regarding Hallmarked Gold :
each egg must pass the ASSAY scale
and must be sent to Birmingham,
but be advised don’t use the mail.