POETRY

Here is a selection of my poetry for MARCH

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.

LARKS ASCENDING

Beneath a mass of threatening cloud,

I’m wrapped against the forecast snow

as I stride out across Larks Hill.

Below, the streaming vehicles groan

down Harvest Ride and on to town.

Yet here, above the traffic’s drone,

comes birdsong over tussocked grass —

too far to carry from the hedge

but clear above the gusting blast.

Casting about this grassy space

I spot them, dots against the sky,

riding in air too cold for snow,

braving this February day.

Whilst others shelter in the hedge,

these tiny crested, feathered scraps

defy the worst that Winter brings.

Miraculous, daredevil birds

sing out a challenge and a prayer :

an invocation to the Spring.

ELVERS

Riding spring tides, sucked into Severn’s mouth,

they’ve braved Atlantic storms to swarm upstream :

this mass of squirming grey translucency,

glass eels, whose every heartbeat can be seen.

Rare pike and wading herons eat their fill,

and, on ebb tides at night, lone fishermen

come out with lights, attract this shoal

close to the banks and dip-nets’ caging pens.

Spring’s river harvest time in bygone days

saw elver-eating contests at the pub;

sold cheaply by the pint to working men,

these baby eels were starving families’ grub.

Today, ‘though fewer make the nets, the catch,

a writhing, frothy mass, is ferried home

by van in plastic tanks and old tin baths

to sell, as special Easter treats, to gastronomes.

HEALTH WARNING

(Down Warfield Lanes)

On murky mornings and grey days

winter motorists passing through

hurriedly wind their windows down

to lose their litter in the gloom.

Now, in the first bright glint of Spring,

like soiled washing in the breeze,

polythene cloaks the blackthorn hedge.

Along the roadside broken glass

where fox and badger soon will tread.

Crushed cans and wrappers coat the verge,

daffodils struggle to be seen —

Smokers die young, the packet says —

but better if it read, Stay Green!

SEEING THINGS

In candy pink and bridal white

the orchards high on Winters Hill

stand proud against a cloudless sky –

define this fine St. George’s Day.

Close by the bridge, at Spencer’s church,

a red cross flutters in the breeze;

first swallows turn above the Thames

where swan flotilla glides downstream.

A solitary boat drifts on;

two walkers, with a map and dog,

seem set to walk on to Bourne End,

leaving behind a crow and me…

Perched on a rotting willow trunk,

nodding and bowing to the stream,

he seems to concentrate so hard

watching the water’s glassy sheen.

Then, suddenly, he takes to flight –

matching his wing beats to the breeze,

he seems to hover in the air

and touch the tops of waves mid-stream

to snatch from waters some small prey.

Retiring to the other bank,

he eats his meal in privacy

before returning to his tree.

Twice more this fishing crow performs

then flies off to a distant oak –

leaving in mind a miracle :

a memory, a puff of smoke.

WILLOW

It was the first still day of Spring

I came across you by the lake.

For mirrored, lonely, lovely girl

it seems a secret solitude –

a mood, perhaps, I should not break.

I watched you bending to the pool,

bright celandines smiled up at you,

a princess letting down her hair

to rippling mirror of the mere

as breezes kissed the water there.

You are your loveliest in Spring –

so why be sad, why do you weep?

Most feminine of all the trees

please let your tresses cascade down :

as crimped coiffure and verdant gown.

GOLDFINCHES

Exotics, on dull Lenten days,

outflank drab sparrows’ dismal show

with tinkling, bell-like calls in flight

and flash of gold as off they go –

a charm of finches bob the hedge.

Pushed to the margins of the farms

where tractors spray with herbicides,

goldfinches seek untended scenes

for spiky teasels, thistledown

and groundsels’ tiny wind blown seeds.

Kept as a charm against the plague,

then caged for beauty and for song,

they almost died out in the wild

till keeping them was seen as wrong

and Parliament came to their aid.

Yet, down the ages they’ve appeared

in pictures of the infant Christ :

companions for a tiny child,

as symbols of the sacrifice

and passion that was yet to come…

These sweet-voiced, gold-winged tiny birds

pulled out the thorns to free Christ’s crown.

In doing so, his blood was spilled

and blessed them with a love profound –

marking cheeks red as sacred birds.