POETRY

 Here is a selection of my poetry for JULY

THE KNACK

Looking across the net

he knew the way the kid would feel.

He had been there himself :

knowing no fear,

ebullient and self possessed —

riding his strength and skill.

Hunger, ambition, arrogance

fuelled his success —

then he could sleep at night :

confident and best.

His time has come. His body aches.

The proud flame that drives him on

evaporates.

Clothes cling with sweat,

sweat stings his eyes —

trapped in a cauldron of heat and noise.

Over the net, the young boy’s

features change as he pictures there

faces of champions he’s played.

In silence he focuses his will.

Playing from memory —

of aces from the past —

he winds up, refreshed :

serving for the match.

DANGEROUS LIAISONS

All night soft rain. A bloodshot dawn

prompts birdsong where a constant veil

of droplets from new leaves softens

earth, settles dust, brings out small snails.

This white lipped, banded colony

abandons cover beneath trees,

heading across the viscous ground

to glide towards a concrete quay.

And there, in such an open place,

these secret creepers choose to meet :

erotically they weave in pairs

till bonded closely by their feet.

So joined —tight gripped — they're unaware

of distant thunder drawing near,

far too involved in their embrace

these molluscs fail to sense or hear

the pounding of athletic shoes

as Harriers run their annual race...

Snails in flagrante disappear :

a province wiped out without trace.

BOLD

From the field-edge, a tunnel through tall grass

is snaking round the rampant brambles’ reach,

passed willowherb and thistles six feet tall –

a local fox has used this track all year.

Emerging in our garden in dense shade,

below a canopy of hazel boughs,

he soft-foots through the ferns and onto grass.

Casually he lopes towards the house, stops

to drink from border’s hidden pool, then checks

below bird feeders for spilt seed and marks

his visit with a fetid scat. Turning,

he passes where we sit, close-by the house,

trots down the drive to vanish in the lane.

Amazed, we freeze and watch this fox go by –

we’d seen signs that he visits in the night,

but not mid-afternoon in hot July.

TRANQUILLITY

(Along the River Tresillian)

The stillness of this place is quite profound

when water’s slack beyond the wooden quay,

just wind and silence are the only sounds.

A heron stands inert as if becalmed,

no curlew’s song or gulls’ cacophony —

the stillness of this place is quite profound.

Across the mudflats egrets can be found,

white dots in clusters perched in Merther’s trees;

here wind and silence are the only sounds.

Tresemple Pond now flanks this path and ground,

its trees and bushes hold faint sounds of bees;

the stillness of this place is quite profound.

Spiralling buzzards turn and turn around,

circle St. Clement’s Well, its scrub and ivy,

yet wind and silence are the only sounds.

This spot is where tranquillity is found

with mind and nature joined in harmony;

the stillness of this place is quite profound

when wind and silence are the only sounds.

VIEW FROM THE TOWPATH

Still waters reflect tall buildings,

cool, dark shadows under bridges,

reversed graffiti from old walls.

There’s buddleia and willow herb,

moorhens and a heron fishing :

all of them in mirror image,

enlivening old watercourse.

To the side of the main channel

near a lock – quite unexpected –

is a pool of water lilies,

numbers doubled by reflections.

So exquisite in their setting –

walkers stop in admiration,

conversation turns to Monet’s

Giverny – his water garden

and Le Bassin Aux Nympheas…

When does art become investment?

Do some eyes behold just money?

Can it still be “truth is beauty”

and, for all, that “beauty’s truth?”

Here the sun still shines on water

highlighting these perfect lilies;

witness to Damascus moment

for these walkers on the towpath,

pausing, on the way to Limehouse.

In June 2008, Claude Monet’s painting Le Bassin Aux Nympheas,was sold at auction in London for £41million.

PERHAPS

And God said to himself,

"Perhaps I'll give it one more try.

I must admit last time was quite a flop —

I gave them minds too powerful :

intellect, free will and their strange

natures could never seem to mix —

then came their technologies!

The mess they made of Earth!

It burned up brighter than their Sun...

Lucky I kept The Garden to myself."

"Still, it seems a pity

to let such hard work go to waste —

a breath or two's enough to cool Earth down.

It'll be simple enough to start again :

filling the seas, greening the land,

making fish and flowers.

It will be fun, of course,

thinking up new animals.

I've kept my touch — I'm more creative now —

I'll work this out, the second time around."

When God finished he took a nap,

but restless dreams still haunted him.

"I'm lonely," God thought, "Earth is incomplete"...

So in his image man was formed.

Chancing it, God set man on Earth

and for insurance sent along his Son,

confident, from this act, love would return ...

A safeguard for his masterwork.

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