POETRY

Vincent Van Gogh - Wheat field with crows 

A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER

For days late summer heat had built
hazing first fields of corduroy
where swallows climbed the heavy air
to shimmer over distant wheat.

Dense storm clouds mass as black night turns
and thunder stumbles round the hills
until a brief fluorescent flash
illuminates our airless room.

Then rain. First heavy drops explode
unevenly in ones and twos,
till suddenly a torrent grows —
setting awash the window sill,
racing down gullies, blocking drains,
cascading from gutters, swamping
lawns...everywhere is overfilled.
Later we hear the storm's last roll
as timpani begins to slow :
rain shushes to a steady drip.

And under blankets of warm air
we lie and wait for ragged dawn —
together, but with separate thoughts —
aware, like love, that summer's gone.

LAST REUNION

Each evening, when late August sun was low,
they’d come to check the field behind the house —
impatient for the harvest to be done.

They’d circle, honking, just above the ground
and, when the crop was in, on stubble field
touched down in ones and twos, small family groups,

skeins, silhouetted by the setting sun.
Leaving each morning, they’d return at dusk
for a noisy reunion every day…

And every year the pattern was the same :
they’d stay a week or so and then move on
to over-winter many miles away.

This year, when geese had gone, men came with plans :
theodolites cast shadows over land.

HAWK

From our bedroom, I heard your breathless call :
“A sparrow hawk! Come quietly, be quick!”

Halting, short of the glass, I slowly inched
to where we both could watch the visitor —
like Alfred’s “…nature, red in tooth and claw.”

Just yards from where we stood she slowly fed :
the ornamental driftwood was her perch
and butcher’s block – grey wood now tinged with red.

And all the time she fed she looked around —
more cautious than the birds she terrorised —
fixing our window with her yellow stare,
pausing, head cocked, aware of every sound.

Then, startled into nervy flight, she fled
across the lawn towards a blood-red sun,
her gory talons grasping her ripped prey.

Behind she left a puff of wind-blown down,
torn feathers and, to mark her mid-air kill,
a smear of bird lime stains the pristine drive…

The friendly, fearless robin’s voice is stilled.

PAPER ROSES

That day, two deliveries : first the mail —
those anticipated letters and cards;
then, a complete surprise, with the female
delivery driver finding it hard
to see around that giant, white bouquet...
Such sculpted roses and enormous lilies,
a special gift to mark a special day —
flown from a practised grower in the Scillies.

Amongst the cards, from a plain envelope,
ingenious, laser-cut paper rose
pops up — pure white against a ground of taupe.
And, for this triumph of design, love grows…
As big bouquets lose petals, shrivel, die,
your paper rose will always satisfy.

REMEMBER…?

Everyone remembers special moments:
that flash of sunshine from a perfect day;
an instant remembered being lambent,
a memory to combat days of grey.

For some, there’s a reel of sporting triumphs
of cups and medals won to great acclaim;
for others a degree or making money,
media spots, those five minutes of fame.

Most recall their times with friends and family —
treasure precious days from a fading past —
Christmas time with Gran, her house so chilly,
her old radio and the King’s broadcast.

And, for me, the strongest memory yet…
that dance hall in my teens when we first met.