Here is a selection of my poetry for AUGUST

ABOUT THE HOUSE

A helicopter lands out in the grounds

and soon a limo churns the drive to dust

with guests who feel their stature is enough

to make this discrete drive along the limes.

The house pays for itself as an hotel –

fine dining in the splendour of the past –

where kings and courtesans, the famous stayed,

but would these ones who pay be Nancy’s types?

Would Nancy have approved a giant slide

for entertaining masses at her home?

The Water Garden’s like some city park

near café and a playground for the young.

And what of weekend hordes out in the grounds,

with buggies, picnic baskets, screaming kids?

But luckily they seem to stay away

From quiet parts of Cliveden I like best :

The Secret Garden, views from Canning’s Oak.

How Nancy’s face looks down on soldier’s rest;

sad cemetery for pets at Illex Grove

and grassy seats used at Britannia’s test.

On autumn days, when mums and kids have gone,

green woodpeckers inspect The Balustrade

and, in the woodland, muntjacs ghost between

the fruiting chestnuts, rhododendron’s shade.

In quiet times the sense of how things were

seems captured in the changing of the light –

a shadow on the terrace over there,

a sudden gust of wind puts birds to flight.

THE BUTTERFLY BUSH

Self-sown, on waste ground, in old masonry,

it’s found a toehold on old factory sites,

populates the ruins of stately homes.

Once a cultivar, it slipped away

to set up home beside the railway tracks,

on abandoned buildings, sprouts from broken paths.

Buddleia can outgrow some native plants,

seeds germinate on dry and hostile ground;

its panicles of tiny lilac flowers

are where the bees and butterflies are found.

And, at a time with species in decline,

when campaigns urge Save Butterflies and Bees

our government has found time to decide

that buddleia is no more than a weed…

DEFRA (Department for the Environment, Food and Rural Affairs)

Has declared buddleia to be an “invasive alien species.”

CONVOLVULUS

When first green bramble berries start to show

And many hedgerow flowers start to fade,

Up roadside grasses twining bindweed grows –

Widdershins – towards bright sunlight’s haze.

Soon hedges down the lane wear heart-shaped leaves –

Every where’s a smother of white flowers –

Bell-like, large, they congregate like thieves

To steal the light, ambitious to climb higher.

Unlike favoured cousin, Morning Glory

Bindweed in your garden is a pain –

A tiny bit of root repeats the story,

Enveloping your beds with weed again.

FORCE of NATURE

Whoosh! Like a force of nature they arrive…

Starlings. This boisterous, squawking, noisy mob,

strutting, uncouth gang, intimidate all

cautious birds : dunnocks, chaffinch, secret wrens.

Spreading across the feeding site, they clear

spilt grain, steal perches from the smaller birds.

Clumsily they ride the feeder’s wild swing –

scattering seed on hooligans below,

stabbing at brave sparrows, bluetits, finches

whose presence threatens to disrupt the show.

Leaving as quickly as they came, this flock-

of-one-mind swarms a laden apple tree

to ruin near-ripe fruit with casual pecks.

Then off again, a ragged hurtling mass,

to pounce on fields, string power lines like beads.

At day’s close they rise as one : this wheeling,

darkling flock shape-shifts in a setting sun.

Across the land a ritual soon repeats :

sharing a common pulse they turn, turn again,

flocks swoop fields, skirt factories, circle streets

as they follow weird tracks through empty air –

invisible to all but these strange birds.

At old Bisham two golfers have to wait

as starlings drive the fairway of the eighth;

like swarming bees they funnel single file,

descend upon an ivy-covered trunk

to disappear completely – swallowed up…

Creating, from a tree and avian clan,

a trembling, cackling sight of the Green Man.

GIANTS

They came, skimming our chimney pots,

one summer day when we were out –

just reaching to the field beyond.

Our startled neighbour told us how

she’d watched transfixed, holding her breath,

as wickerwork just cleared the roof.

This morning they were back again

on driest, calmest day for weeks :

when sun burnt off the valley’s mist

and set damp cobwebs glittering.

I opened doors for cool fresh air

but caught a growing, roaring sound –

a giant’s panting laboured breath.

A fiery red face glowered down

to billow over field–edged oak.

For seconds it stood quite erect,

towering over house and tree

then nylon rippled and collapsed

to stubble field, descends from skies :

colossus, creeping down to rest.

Ants seemed to pull a giant low

and roll away the canopy –

packing the basket with his face.

Now, they must wait for transport home :

their day over, mine just begun.

THE LAST FIELD

Foxes can't be bothered searching this land,

passers-by would never praise the view;

in all the years, nothing here has happened,

those visiting this field are very few.

There's no clear stream hiding rare brook lampreys

or muddy pond where crested newts may grow;

no protected flora ever grew here —

even common bluebells never show.

No ancient oaks — rubbing posts for cattle —

a place to safely harbour local bats;

listed birds like nightjars never nest here,

you'll never see a rabbit or a rat.

Men in suits with plans arrived this morning,

they scheme to join my village to your town

and take away this last green space between us —

our countryside gone...blown like thistledown.

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