POETRY

Readers looking at this website on an i-pad or mobile phone:

For the best experience, it is recommended that you hold your device so that

the screen can be viewed HORIZONTALLY.

Here's a selection of my poems for OCTOBER

I update this website at the start of each month with a fresh selection of my poetry.

PLEASE VISIT HOME (click the HOME button) for an important announcement !



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.

IT’S NOT UNUSUAL Summer’s lasted into Autumn — some claim that it’s “Climate Change” but it’s been known through the ages how there’s warmth in some saint’s days. Take St. Luke’s “Little Summer” with its spell of golden days, or St. Martin’s in November when warm days can bring a change. Known in folklore as “Goose Summers” — this time of year’s for eating goose — “Gossamer’s” the term contracted but it has links with more than “Goose”… In the stubble fields of Autumn spider’s webs glint in the sun it’s this gossamer they’re spinning that is known to everyone. In a misty drift of drizzle on a cool October day we had walked the paths of Summer under skies that had turned grey; no birds singing from the hedgerow and no flowers to be seen — it’s Gossamer Summer ending as our Autumn’s weathers change.

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.

IVY The late September mists are slow to rise but warming sun brings insects from their rest made lively by this summer’s slow demise, they swarm the flowering plant that they like best. The ivy-covered fence is full of bees whose season is devoted to these flowers and many butterflies come here to feed preparing for their sleep through winter hours. Below the fence the ground is turning pale – the pollinator’s work is almost done; the nectar, insects’ soporific dwale, assures that berries ripen in late sun providing winter food for starving birds, ensuring New Year’s song thrush will be heard. Dwale – an ancient term for ‘sleeping drought’

ROSARY 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.

BLACK DOG We are not strangers now, black dog. Others have known you too : slinking from the shadows, snuffling and thin, persistent in your following. Trotting along behind, biding your time, you are prepared to wait to seize your opportunity – cleverly you ingratiate susceptible hearts, guileless minds. Shouting never frightened you or the hex sign. Closing eyes is fine until, opening them once more, finds you still here. Deep breathing calms the mind, but then you sit and whine – nothing I do makes you disappear. So finally the bottom line is knowing that you’re here to stay – best to ignore you, come what may. Each cunning sidelong glance reveals you resting, head on paws today, or idly sitting scratching fleas – each time you’re always watching me with eyes half shut, never asleep : unwanted friend waits patiently. Then sometimes, with the longer days, you leave, abruptly disappear, and I relax in summer’s sun and savour this changed atmosphere. Yet still I know it cannot last ‘though I’ve escaped from time to time, you’ll suddenly appear, black dog, and nuzzle me as if you’re mine. In autumn, with the falling leaves, you come. When copper sun rests on the trees I see you gliding through the wood, knowing, with summer gone, you’ll seek me out – it’s understood.