POETRY

A selection of my poems for JUNE

ROSE -"THE POET'S WIFE"

Albrecht Durer - Young Hare

HARES

New born, the leveret hunkers down,

this shallow grassy form its only refuge.

From the field gate — one careless step away —

it faces lowering skies and April deluge.

Furred and mobile, leverets grow up fast —

once an evening visit from their mothers;

soon eating grasses, weaned in thirty days

for a secret life mostly under cover.

Out of hedgerow grass, as teams trot out,

a startled hare blunders across the pitch.

Frightened by the crowd, chased by unleashed dog,

zig-zags to safety, bounds the yawning ditch.

Elusive moon-gazers, meditators,

solitary envoys on the run;

they make shy pets — highly strung, evasive —

Cowper kept three hares, Boudica had one.

Seen from the train, in a distant pasture,

a lepus convocation set to scare :

these witches’ familiars and shape-shifters…

Was that a coven or some circled hares?

ON CABBAGE HILL

(Watching Deer)

At dusk, from off the bank

Where primroses had been,

We watched for wary shades :

Deer, inching through the wheat.

Excitement carefully checked,

We froze and dared not breathe

As antlered heads bobbed close

Across that golden sea.

Thrilling to see them near -

Elusive and so shy -

A tingle like the time

We watched kingfishers dive.

We waited silently

As night began to fall :

Dogs barked, a cow lowed once,

Wind rippled ripening corn.

Not deer - but being with you,

Is what I most recall :

The closeness of our wait,

Our hearts beating as one;

A tiny sense of hope,

A symbol of our love.

DEER

First light, where Forest Road climbs Cabbage Hill.

A muntjac on the verge lies very still,

its head now wreathed by bluebell flowers —

another victim of dark night time hours.

Empty road, fast car up from the village

meets bolting deer, startled from the hedge.

So many die on roads like this poor doe —

cue hungry fox and undertaker crow.

A slow left turn, past hedgerow white with May,

out of the dark, a deer now blocks my way.

DEAD STOP! — but there’s still a gentle touch,

I watch blithe deer run off … not worried much!

First deer encounter? — 60s Cotswold road,

pre-war banger that handled like a toad;

deer filled the windscreen — all that we could see —

then, over wall — one bound and he was free!

SWIFTS

We saw their nest sites in Estoi —

dense colonies of mud-built cups

jammed under eaves of buildings there.

No practise flights for fledgling swifts,

they launch off on a three year flight

to eat, drink, sleep, mate on the wing.

On summer evenings, eating out,

swift multitudes would skim the square

for moths attracted by the lights;

then suddenly, they’d disappear

spiralling on their vesper flight

up and away from starlit town.

Swifts led the Moors from Africa

to settle on Sabika Hill

and build their fortressed palace home.

Alhambra still attract these birds —

hawking insects from ponds and rills —

a show for all the tourists there.

But England’s swifts are in decline :

lost nesting sites and food supplies

have halved the numbers coming here —

no screaming parties any more,

small groups or birds in ones or twos —

those drifts of swifts gone from our skies…

Vesper Flight – in the evening groups of swifts gather

then fly upwards many thousand feet. They will stay at

this altitude for several hours, asleep on the wing.

Heyerdahl (1857 - 1913) Adam & Eve

ADAM AS ENTREPRENEUR

(To be read in a West Country Accent)

“Well, “ Adam said, draining his pint,

“That garden were real special, mind;

All them plants : trees of perfect fruit,

Flowers of every kind and just

Enough insects pollinatin.’

Climate like a glasshouse : sunny

Days, gentle rain at night - clockwork.

An’ the soil - in all me days I’ve

Never seen the like - some gardener -

No wonder ‘e called it Eden.

I was made up - with ‘im askin’

Me to run it - just me and Eve….

In a place that could run isself.

Mind you, ‘e ‘ad is funny ways :

Regulashuns…that sort o’ thing -

Tellin’ us “Don’t eat that fruit”, -

An’ us livin’ in a orchard!

Fact is ‘e got peculiar,

Callin’ this un his Knowledge Tree -

Its crabby fruit reserved for ‘im.

Mind you, all this got me to think,

Wonderin’ how I could taste his fruit

Without the need to take a bite.

He were quick enough telling’ us

What not to do - but no advice,

No mention of that serpent’s ways.

Of all the creatures livin’ there,

IT was the worst. A real smoothy,

You should’ve seen ‘im creep round God.

Anyway, once I had this dream -

All bright it was, about God’s Tree :

By turnin’ all the fruit to juice

I could avoid ‘is stupid ban

‘Bout eatin’ it - a DRINK you see -

But first I’d ‘ave to make a press

To squeeze the fruit down into juice.

I worked out how to do all this

Then went to tell the plan to Eve,

Unaware, as I hatched that plot,

Snake-in-the-grass heard every word.

So I went off to make the press -

No sooner than me back was turned

Old crawler’s there, chattin’ up Eve.

Like someone from a used car lot

Or travellin’ salesman, door to door,

He’s smarmin’ round her with his guff….

Why is it women fall for words?

He told how apples kept God wise

And that me press would never work;

“Go on,” he says, “A little bite

Will do no harm & keep you bright.”

I’d never heard God shout before -

Somehow he knew what Eve had done,

So, when I rushed back ‘ome to ‘er

God’s there waitin - we’re showed the door.

Mind you, the press worked perfect, like

And it come with us when we left.

We’ve made our fortune overnight

With cider, perries and the rest;

But I can’t get the apples right -

They taste like God’s, but fail the test :

No drinker’s gained in knowledge yet -

They all gets drunk and just forgets.

Go on then, right, make mine a pint.

MESSAGE IN A BOTTLE

It’s strange to be writing like this

but these days I feel rather scared

as, watching the ebbing of tides,

of life I began to despair.

I’m anxious to just let you know

I’m intact and safe enough here,

somehow I’ve ridden the tide to

the rock of my grandparent years.

It’s strange how I just bobbed along

unsure how I got to this place,

my landmarks all seem to have gone —

that route I shall never retrace.

Yet inside I feel just the same —

I hope that I make myself clear —

as something has got to be done :

I’m not going to hang about here.

Having checked out my position,

taking time to have a good rest,

I am slipping back into the

water, returning to my quest.

Leaving my rock in the distance,

swimming strongly on out to sea,

I’ll reach for gold in the sunset —

so please keep a look out for me.