Here is a selection of my poetry for NOVEMBER
I watch leaves fall from wind-blown trees,
my children gone, their voices fade;
as memory and light degrades
late birds depart, lost to dark night.
Slowly the nights are drawing in –
times are quiet with less to say
than mornings of those spring-shaped days;
gardens made ready for storms ahead.
The blinds are drawn as lights come on,
books and summers are packed away;
only echoes and ghosts will stay –
each day a prayer to tell like beads.
Through the field gate,
turning along the hedge,
I almost step on a young hare.
sheltered below hazel,
it crouches in its hidden form:
long ears erect,
that coat of browns and black –
its camouflage since being born.
passed pictures large and small,
today I walk grand marble halls.
From an entrance,
tracking the carpet’s edge,
I’m face to face with A Young Hare
evokes my leveret –
caught between paper and mind’s eye.
Careful brush strokes
emphasize the detailed
whiskers, ears, eyes and glossy fur…
And I am held:
trapped by memories
and a five hundred year-long stare.
A Young Hare by Albrecht Durer is on display at The Albertina, Vienna.
Nothing moving on the road,
Summer’s vanished from the beach.
Drizzle’s hanging in the air,
I know you’re out of reach.
Everywhere this town’s shut down –
I’m driving roads alone,
I pass places where we met –
Reminders that you’ve left, gone home…
But, I can hear you,
You’re still singing our song,
Sea breezes in your hair –
Big shades on…
Please believe me, my love for you is still as strong
Even though our summer days have gone.
Out on a winter road
The radio plays our special song,
Inside I’m a hopeless dreamer,
Forgetting why it all went wrong;
I thought I understood love,
Was I surprised?
I guess I’ll go on searching –
Seek another sunrise…
But I still hear you :
Our song, whispered by the trees,
Your smile glints from the sun,
Your touch : the breeze…
Please remember, my love for you was always strong
Woken by the moonlight from my window,
I stumbled out of bed just half awake.
Rubbing eyes, amazed to see the Swallow,
the Fox and Frolic, Sandwich and Sheldrake.
Packet ships are filling all the moorings
in shadow ranks across a silver sea,
Cygnet, Redpole, even Francis Freeling —
the masts a forest out from Greenbank Quay.
Not one light illuminates the cabins
of the spectre ships that have all come home,
some battle scarred, some as floating coffins —
forever in the darkness they must roam.
Perhaps this will not be all that it seemed —
by morning, when I wake, I’ll know I’ve dreamed.
Britain was almost continuously at war during the 18th and 19th centuries.
Fast, lightly armoured packet ships carried mail from Falmouth to the
British Embassies and the colonies. These ships had to run the gauntlet
of attack and capture from Britain’s enemies and opportunistic pirates. Many
of the Packet Ship Captains stayed at what is now The Greenbank Hotel.
ALL POEMS ON THIS WEBSITE ARE SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT