Here is a selection of my poetry for JUNE
The white wall bears bright purple stains :
geranium flowers in the rain
have left their mark. This “flaming” June
the unexpected gusting winds
have stripped the petals from dog rose
and carpeted this grassy path.
Above, the elderflowers bloom –
corymbs of tiny star-like flowers
decked with raindrops, gleaming jewels,
are too wet for your gentle craft.
Next morning it was warm and dry,
the flowerheads were at their best
and, gently, you cut each one –
avoiding crushing them once picked.
With loving care they were prepared
and you became an alchemist,
distilling fragrant flower scent
into a nectar of pale gold.
Safe in our fridge the bottles sit,
your cordial, unexpected gift
will be enjoyed on sunny days
when essence of the countryside
transforms a cool and welcome draught.
JUNE - Frederick Leighton 1825
Brilliant early sun.
I cleave to sleep.
My tattered cloak of dreams
Still clings to me.
Pulling it tight I turn -
Caught in her beam.
Does this sun ever rest?
She comes to me -
Gentle as a lover,
So, waiting, Earth prepares :
Bird song to herald her -
Creeping, she comes melting
Shadows. From her
Radiant look the cool
Young breezes fade.
Now in her nakedness
She visits me.
Her touch is everywhere -
Queen Midas of
The fiery embrace -
Gilding the very air…..
There is no hiding place.
Sometimes the meaning comes in code:
Reflections on a pool; flower tints;
Sea, sky or hills as cyphers.
Or information set in tongues:
Bird call; the constant drone of bees;
Whispering grass or cold wind’s song.
Keeping air waves clear, tuned to all
Known frequencies, I wonder will
I hear…. Your message understood ?
This is an elemental place :
Beyond the path mist hangs on ragged oaks,
Sun burning white,
Turns vapours into daytime ghosts.
Here sea and cloud conjoin :
The tide, a muffled slap and shush,
There is a hush enveloping this scene -
As, in slack water herons wait,
A curlew's plaintive voice librates
Across an unseen sea.
Wind on a turning tide
Brings magic - smoke and mirrors -
Conjures up a fishing smack,
Chuntering through the beds of wrack,
For curtained mist to hide.
And from the distance
Tinkling song of sheet on mast,
St. Anthony's low mournful moan;
As all the headland fog holds fast
Spirits and wraiths are free to roam.
(Coming to Froe)
And every year we come again to Froe
To wonder and delight that nothing's changed
Except for natural things that just take place -
A steady grassing of this shaded path
Where here and there the view becomes obscured
By bushes, nettles and the spreading oaks.
We're looking down across a timeless place
Of mudflats, where salt water trickles through
The skeletons of long forgotten boats.
The herons creep to stake new fishing pools
Beyond a tidal flowing euphony
Of mewing gulls and curlews' haunting calls.
The stillness of this place is like a ghost -
A presence that will always stay with me -
On grey, damp city days I long for most
The views from Froe towards the Porthcuel Quay.
Escaping gunfire from the sea,
fear and blind panic drove them on
like any other refugees.
Without the loadstar of their lives,
away from the familiar,
they travelled unseen through the night
from far beyond the ocean’s swell.
Singing, to keep their spirits high,
they passed Black Rock and Castle Point
to swing into the broad Porthcuel…
Beyond moored boats with jangling sheets,
the sleeping Manor House at Place,
they lost their way and chose Porth Creek.
Into this elemental place
of mudflats, long abandoned boats,
they moved in on a changing tide.
Beneath the overhanging oaks
where brown stream narrows, up near Froe,
the tidal waters ebbed away.
Caught up in flotsam, debris, weed,
the party floundered in the creek
as channel water turned to shoals.
The sun rose on the carnage there,
as gardeners raised the alarm –
of those who travelled from the sea,
only a handful still survived.
Now mouths are stopped – their chant has gone
and eyes are blind to helping hands
as men humped bodies to the grass.
There’s tragedy, no respite won,
no refuge in this hostile land –
for those who’ve journeyed from so far
the sole lament is curlews’ song.
On June 9th,2008 a large pod of dolphins was discovered beached in the shallows of
Porth Creek, Cornwall – 26 had died. It is believed that they had been panicked by
explosions in Falmouth Bay during a naval exercise.