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WILD RANSOMS Along the cliff edge — too far to safely reach — these white bells tantalised with their strange scent : a pungent odour on the breeze their signature.
Later, in Roseland, we saw them grown like weeds : filling meadows, smothering hedgerow grass, covering the roadside verge like gentle drifts of snow.
And at St. Just, filling the churchyard there, bluebells and ransoms like a haze on every bank, round ancient graves.
And, through the palm that grows where you now rest, a solitary ransom flower had set.
Though far away in miles and time, the smell of garlic takes me back — transports me instantaneously to that Spring day : the tiny church, the muddy creek, the ransom flowers and you.
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ABLAZE Now, by a certain day in May gardens and parks are all ablaze with flowers blessed by Summer’s flame. Chestnuts with carmine red or white posies in candled pyramids, tower above laburnums’ gold; luminous yellow oil-seed still dazzles from its far-off fields. Orchards present in pink or white and every lane, where hawthorn grows, is white with blossom, Queen Anne’s lace… and buttercups complete the show.
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SALLOW On Beltaine Day ( this first of May) the air outside is filled with snow : not like the cold of wintertime —
when flakes fall steadily to ground — but this snow drifts, rises and falls then thickens with the passing breeze.
Through every window, open door, the snow flows as it would in dreams : filling each ledge and entrance hall
with gossamer that floats away, evading house-proud, tidying hands. Outside it catches leaves of plants,
covering cobwebs and mown grass — a snow scene under springtime sun. So sallow willow sends its seeds
to ride the air like thistledown until a longed for shower of rain brings sweet relief and damps it down.
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SEEING THINGS In candy pink and bridal white the orchards high on Winters Hill stand proud against a cloudless sky – define this fine St. George’s Day.
Close by the bridge, at Spencer’s church, a red cross flutters in the breeze; first swallows turn above the Thames where swan flotilla glides downstream.
A solitary boat drifts on; two walkers, with a map and dog, seem set to walk on to Bourne End, leaving behind a crow and me…
Perched on a rotting willow trunk, nodding and bowing to the stream, he seems to concentrate so hard watching the water’s glassy sheen.
Then, suddenly, he takes to flight – matching his wing beats to the breeze, he seems to hover in the air and touch the tops of waves mid-stream
to snatch from waters some small prey. Retiring to the other bank, he eats his meal in privacy before returning to his tree.
Twice more this fishing crow performs then flies off to a distant oak — leaving in mind a miracle : a memory, a puff of smoke.
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ONCE I saw an albino blackbird once, stock still behind a wall of glass — but museum birds are not real life.
At busy spots in every town, it’s said a rat’s six feet away but they stay hidden in clear sight.
Yet, in the country, miles from towns, the fields and hedgerows teem with life that many of us just won’t see…
Good luck brought me to see a stoat charging the road at Cabbage Hill — an instant later he’d be gone!
My first stoat with her family, I watched for seconds on a wall at Brinklow as I passed by car.
Today, I saw The Weasel Dance while walking near the River Cut. This jiving stoat held birds transfixed,
ducking and diving, side to side, but when he charged magpies took flight… to goad him, landing yards away.
Each time he charged the birds gave ground as if this was a game they played — the stoat grew anxious for his meal
then seeing me, he just turned tail, abruptly closing down his show and, into balsam, disappeared.
Magpies chuckled as off they flew, suddenly I was on my own... dumbfounded by what I’d just seen.
The Weasel Dance refers to the strange movements weasels and stoats perform to hypnotize their prey.
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GOING GENTLY (Minnou) Rescued from abuse — we had to build your trust — you sat and watched our other cat and learned. So timid then, your instinct was to hide
and once, in terror, threw yourself down stairs. We watched and saw your confidence return — the garden and the sun became your friends
and everyday you’d make your way outside or watched from windowsill on days of rain. We gave kindness, food, shelter and a home
and in return you offered so much joy, repaying us with closeness and your purr and with a gentle love, so unreserved. Now, as the days grow long, your life grew short as age and illness wasted you away; despite our care, the medicines and love
are useless now and can’t postpone this day. You rested, feather-light in midday sun on friendly lap, content with stroking hands… and with a gentle breath you slipped away like thistledown on wind… and pain was gone.
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FLEDGLING AT WEST END Rescued from our amiable cat, the fledgling lay, cupped in your hands, eyes closed and struggling for breath, trembling with shock or close to death.
Out in the air, under blue skies — the trees alive with song of birds — it seemed to calm, stop trembling, as fluttering, it looked around.
Then came that certain point in time : it perched upon your fingertips — we stood there willing it to go — as it remembered how to fly.
Where do all those moments go as present time becomes the past? Who records those tears of joy, remarks upon each new bird’s flight?
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A PANEGYRIC FOR WILLIAM BARTLETT (An Ode for Bill) Leaving with heavy hearts to make that long drive west, we shared the same regret : our chance to see you, missed.
Time lost when we could talk, all gone in Winter’s storms. Now, driving through late Spring, we come to say, “So long…”
In the lee of high blue hill we cross this marble town with its hundred R.I.P.s, two poets and a Rolling Stone.
The service you had planned — an ingenious goodbye — two big screens up on the wall with a slide-show of your life.
Your music caused surprise — not Elgar, Garland, Keating, but two hymns by Henry Lyte — an agnostic’s choice? — Revealing!
Yet best “A Few Last Words,” your footnote all in verse, with your humorous view “through a crack in the door” of life and the universe.
You ask to be remembered, rest assured, you will be missed as, passing through light’s rubicon, you’ll find answers to why we exist.
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