POETRY
Here's a selection of my poems for APRIL .
I update this website at the start of each month with a fresh selection of my poetry.
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| INTO APRIL
This season’s rushing in like a mad hare — now everywhere I look there’s bloom and leaf; this morning more fresh birdsong fills the air and green begins to show on sluggish beech. The rising sun has melted back to dew an early mist that blanketed the hills, bright dandelions hide the tiny shrew below the apple blossom’s first pink frills. Bluebells fill the copse near Wesley’s Mere and, in the hedgerows, ransoms start to show. The old grey urn has been bees’ home for years as, from the crack, the busy workers flow to visit more and more enticing flowers – enjoying sun, dodging sudden showers.
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| GOLDFINCHES Exotics, on dull Lenten days, outflank drab sparrows’ dismal show with tinkling, bell-like calls in flight and flash of gold as off they go – a charm of finches bob the hedge.
Pushed to the margins of the farms where tractors spray with herbicides, goldfinches seek untended scenes for spiky teasels, thistledown and groundsels’ tiny wind blown seeds.
Kept as a charm against the plague, then caged for beauty and for song, they almost died out in the wild till keeping them was seen as wrong and Parliament came to their aid.
Yet, down the ages they’ve appeared in pictures of the infant Christ : companions for a tiny child, as symbols of the sacrifice and passion that was yet to come…
These sweet-voiced, gold-winged tiny birds pulled out the thorns to free Christ’s crown. In doing so, his blood was spilled and blessed them with a love profound – marking cheeks red as sacred birds.
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| HARES New born, the leveret hunkers down, this shallow grassy form its only refuge. From the field gate — one careless step away — it faces lowering skies and April deluge.
Furred and mobile, leverets grow up fast — once an evening visit from their mothers; soon eating grasses, weaned in thirty days for a secret life mostly under cover.
Out of hedgerow grass, as teams trot out, a startled hare blunders across the pitch. Frightened by the crowd, chased by unleashed dog, zig-zags to safety, bounds the yawning ditch.
Elusive moon-gazers, meditators, solitary envoys on the run; they make shy pets — highly strung, evasive — Cowper kept three hares, Boudica had one.
Seen from the train, in a distant pasture, a lepus convocation set to scare : these witches’ familiars and shape-shifters… Was that a coven or some circled hares?
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| AT THE ALBERTINA Through the field gate, turning along the hedge, I almost step on a young hare. Perfectly still, sheltered below hazel, it crouches in its hidden form:
long ears erect, that coat of browns and black – its camouflage since being born.
Down corridors, passed pictures large and small, today I walk grand marble halls.
From an entrance, tracking the carpet’s edge, I’m face to face with “A Young Hare”
which instantly evokes my leveret – caught between paper and mind’s eye.
Careful brush strokes emphasize the detailed whiskers, ears, eyes and glossy fur…
And I am held: trapped by memories and a five hundred year-long stare.
A Young Hare by Albrecht Durer is on display at The Albertina, Vienna.
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| MAGPIE IN APRIL One for sorrow is quite enough to bring the birdsong to a stop. Out of the field, along our hedge, this corvid checks for nests to wreck. Through dooms of love the parents fear the loss of eggs or tiny birds. Blackbirds have flown, their nest torn down, even the feisty robin’s gone... As from the roof dark eyes observe the maiden flight of fledgling birds.
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| Wartime photo Dad in uniform, Polish Airforce. Dad would've been 104 on April 13th (13/04/1920 - 11/09/2012) |
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| TO THE END OF THE ROAD In far-off days the road was clear and safe enough for Dad and son to practice with first two-wheeled bike.
Gripping the saddle post, Father steadied bike and son and, pushing at a gentle trot, sought balance.
Wobbling down the road they went with Father jogging to keep up – his grip on bicycle so light.
And I could see his shadow there, supporting me along the road, until I noticed it had gone…
I thought I’d left him far behind but knew that he was always there and with me now to the road’s end.
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| SAINT GEORGE'S DAY
Begins in the traditional way with birdsong, blossom and the flag in places with a village green, a Norman church and shiny Jags.
Since early childhood we have heard legends of a glittering past, but conquests and our heroes now are rising through a different caste.
As kettles boil the breakfast news reports events that form a theme of how, when heritage is lost, the nation loses self esteem.
"Our policies are now in place with Forums for Equalities, Britannia has changed her face, hip to the new realities."
The men in suits divide and rule, they spin all facts to suit their game, whilst on estates in problem towns the flag is used to fan the flame.
In terraced rows and high rise flats we quarrel over worthless crumbs, our changing culture will arise armed and dangerous from the slums.
Out in the park an old dog snarls at mongrel puppies rushing by; by boat and plane the future comes, shivering under leaden skies.
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ALL POEMS ON THIS WEBSITE ARE SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT