POETRY

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Here's a selection of my poems for OCTOBER.

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INTO AUTUMN A late September burst of sunny days helps make-believe that Summer’s set to last, but while the season’s flowers still earn praise Autumn’s first steps are littering the grass… Conkers have fallen from horse-chestnut trees, encouraged by the coldness of the night, here, spiky chestnut shells beside ash keys — but not one shiny conker is in sight. Quite safe on this estate from boy’s attack, this tree is not beset with sticks and stones — yet not one conker sits on grass or track — and empty shells now lie where they were blown… The only clue – brown fragments I have found — proves early deer have cleared this patch of ground.
AUTUMN SUNDAY, BERKSHIRE (Mohammed visits Warfield) Before the sun had warmed these Berkshire fields, As first birds stirred and local traffic slept; While horses stood like statues by the stream And diamonds jewelled tall grass and each cobweb; Before the congregation rose for church And tired dog walkers tumbled from their beds; An unseen stranger ambled village roads, Passed sleeping houses and The Yorkshire Rose. Wandering down the narrow forded lane, Along a bridleway of hips and haws, He found a gateway, set back off the track And, book in hand, he intoned silent prayers. In solitude he watched the rising sun While every local body was at rest, ‘Though no one else gave thanks for this new day — The only man at prayer ignored the west.

BLACKTHORN Our blackthorn has been wonderful this year, each hedge I passed seemed blanketed in snow. The trees, like white sails, billowed over lanes and verges… and the celandines’ bright show. A gusting wind sprang up to shake the hedge, bending the trees to rock them to and fro, releasing blossom in a blizzard fall, surprising horse and rider just below. As drifts of snow-white petals filled the lane the parting clouds revealed a watery sun; although the signs of Spring were in the air, the cold wind warned that Winter’s not yet done… Now, seasons on, the hedge bears blue-black sloes, As bitter as that wind from long ago.
ELEGY He brought the seasons to the town, Dependable as sun and rain, he brought her gifts and news of home. Home grown his harvest: fresh flowers, fruit always the first strawberries — then Cox's wrapped “to see her through.” His final gift each waning year she cherished most — green tomatoes — he loved the big red bowl she placed them in. Slowly as they ripened in the grimy sun, she would think of life at home and think of him. This year the bowl stands empty as rain falls grey and thin she misses his green fruit, but mostly misses him.
From Greenbanks, Falmouth
SLOW REVEAL Enjoying late September days, opening curtains, expecting sun, we’re greeted by a different scene — thick fog has crept in overnight, cool dampness blankets town and sea. Then as the sun begins to rise, the fog performs a slow reveal: shadowy, geometric shapes solidify, details made clear, as roofs and windows of this town. The sun burns out a golden path across the water from its dawn disclosing rows of anchored boats, where suddenly six swans appear through thinning mist to fly upstream. By now the sky’s a peerless blue, as distant spires are exposed, then docks, the cranes and naval ships… And, though the fog has quickly gone, we know that Autumn won’t be long.
ANAMNESIS “The past's a foreign country,” Hartley wrote and so, with age, I've found this to be true. Today, my birthday, asked to reminisce, memories took on a sepia hue. All things remembered alter over time: perspectives shift, main features fade from view and distant details take new prominence — a colour, sound or smell to centre stage, my narrative reduced to fire or rain. Worst still, to find my memories don't chime with your technicolour trophies from our past, or find some things have gone, lost in a fog, or disappeared completely from my life… It makes me wonder what the future holds, could this presage a new and frightening strife? The past is a foreign country – The Go-Between, L.P. Hartley
STAG It came as quite a shock to find him there above the snowline, in that rocky pass. At first, I thought his antlers were a branch, leafless and broken, lying on the ground. Moving closer, I saw this was not so : they lay above a fissure in the rocks where hapless, giant deer had starved and died. This rocky furrow had become a tomb that now gripped tight his skeletal remains — head held high by antlers’ stubborn width. How had he fallen, trapped in this strange grave? — So tightly wedged, no way to flex or bend. Perhaps, in Winter storm, he’d lost his way… in snow had tripped and slipped from off the track. Too tightly gripped to move, nothing to drink, he’d know his only certainty was death. Fading, did he think kindly of his hinds While, elsewhere did they pause, remembering him?