POETRY

A selection of my poems for OCTOBER

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 begin 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 Grandfather 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.

THE LAST TIME

Then, every year it was the same,

we'd wait to watch the geese return.

Just as the sun began to set,

we'd hear them from our cottage door,

honking and calling as they passed.

Somehow they knew when to arrive…

with harvest in and combine gone,

in twos and threes, then Vs and skeins

they'd circle round fresh stubbled field

that filled the top of Cabbage Hill —

dark silhouettes against red sky,

landing in tens beyond Long Copse.

Their congress lasted for a week

with trips to feeding grounds each day

and loud reunions at night.

Then they were gone, leaving the hill

as suddenly as when they came,

to over-winter miles away.

When, late last year, the land was sold,

men with hard hats and plans moved in,

soon diggers made the good earth fly.

“Creating new communities —

A family countryside retreat”…

But not a place to welcome geese.

INTO AUTUMN

A late September burst of sunny days

helps make-believe that Summer’s set to last,

but while the season’s flowers still earn praise

Autumn’s first steps are littering the grass…

Conkers have fallen from horse-chestnut trees,

encouraged by the coldness of the night,

here, spiky chestnut shells beside ash keys –

but not one shiny conker is in sight.

Quite safe on this estate from boy’s attack,

this tree is not beset with sticks and stones –

yet not one conker sits on grass or track–

and empty shells now lie where they were blown…

The only clue – brown fragments I have found –

proves early deer have cleared this patch of ground.

BLACKTHORN

Our blackthorn has been wonderful this year,

each hedge I passed seemed blanketed in snow.

The trees, like white sails, billowed over lanes

and verges… and the celandines’ bright show.

A gusting wind sprang up to shake the hedge,

bending the trees to rock them to and fro,

releasing blossom in a blizzard fall,

surprising horse and rider just below.

As drifts of snow-white petals filled the lane

the parting clouds revealed a watery sun;

although the signs of Spring were in the air,

the cold wind warned that Winter’s not yet done…

Now, seasons on, the hedge bears blue-black sloes,

As bitter as that wind from long ago.

I look back through the years gone by

to find the Christmas you and I

discovered love that kept us warm,

providing comfort from the storm.

Despite the snow I felt no cold

as whistling down dark streets I’d go;

a callow youth of nineteen years

for whom dead winter held no fears.

Winter’s stark cold can numb the brain

but soon the snow will turn to rain,

the days will lengthen, fill with sun –

bright spring brings hope to everyone.

My mind has seen the seasons round,

but autumn has me trapped and bound.

The tyranny of winter’s cold

sees in the New Year, ends the old.

In budding springtime life contrives

to start afresh : revitalise.

The earth awakes as gentle showers

with vernal sun conspire for hours

to make the land a verdant scene,

from hills to hedgerow, hues of green.

High upon our native hills

we found that host of daffodils –

like harbingers for my green youth

as I begin life’s quest for truth.

My mind has seen the seasons round

but autumn has me trapped and bound.

Summer arrives out of the blue :

copper-gold sun and retinue

of tiny clouds, like feather down,

hover above the shimmering town.

The meadowlark spirals unseen

above a landscape caught between

the glimmering sea and burnished hills

where toiling man sun burns and grills.

The city’s heat is hard to bear –

no breeze to stir the thickening air,

the sticky summer brings me down

when trapped within this stifling town.

My mind has seen the seasons round

but autumn has me trapped and bound.

Look closely at the life we’ve seen,

the first snowdrops, air crisp and clean;

a myriad of sun-kissed days

when landscapes shimmer through the haze;

the biting cold of winter nights,

the sparkling snow and crystal light.

But autumn days can bring despair –

a chill of death hangs in the air.

Late autumn mist can quickly hide

all vestige of sun, moon and tide.

in leafless woods and barren fields

slowly the future disappears.

My mind has seen the seasons round

but autumn has me trapped and bound.

TO A GRANDCHILD IN AUTUMN

As summer leaves I hear myself say

When I was Young or Looking back

about the way I've led my life.

In that moment, realisation :

a half century of my years

must stand between the lives we share.

It leaves me breathless and surprised

as here, inside, I feel sixteen.

I still relate to all you do -

anticipate all you must learn -

but I can see the days grow short

and watch the shadows closing in.

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