POETRY

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Here's a selection of my poems for JANUARY

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The Magpie - Claude Monet (1840 - 1926)

JANUARY SUNDAY

Clinging high in a low tree,
a robin stopped to sing for me
and all the robin world.

Despite the cold and wintry day
it stayed — it did not fly away
and showed no fear of me.

Above my head, above the storm,
fearless in the greying dawn,
it sang and sang again, "Rejoice!"

NEW YEAR RESOLUTION This frosty eve I give no promises: no false grand gestures or improvidence; no list of assigned virtues talked into by the drink; no slates wiped clean or leaves turned over on this date. Life still goes on as chimes ring round the land; I shall stay true — please take me as I am.
WOLF MOON Dreams disturbed, I wake to a strange light gleaming from January’s full moon, spotlighting the pillows where I rest, so focussed that you, in shadows, sleep. Seen from the window, radiant moon in the arms of the old apple tree — pure white, luminous, round as a Host… Elevation at this early Mass. Somewhere from silence a vixen cries, intones a Sanctus, craving a blessing for what she has conceived…
A WEEK OF FROST (SEVEN HAIKU) A night jewelled with stars, bright white moonlight on cold air : a hard frost glinting. Before dawn, hoar frost etched glass with icy flowers : window light obscured. Cattle’s steaming breath, white against a leaden sky, the only movement. Ghostly trees hold firm to frozen berries. Birds starve and huddled, shiver. A sharp wind knifes through bleak hedgerows, passed hanging trees, icing travellers. Iced spears of gleaming sedge and rush hold frosted webs — nets to catch the wind. Below windowed ice fish, like orange logs, lie deep sleeping : dream of Spring.
SNOWDROPS In cold, cold earth beneath the snow a small life stirs, below, below. A tiny shoot breaks the iron land, a tender flower that can withstand an Arctic wind at an old year's end : a sign of hope — a small godsend.
MOTORWAY EPIPHANY Road, chosen for convenience, used for our journeys heading west, is not a stimulating drive. So trees become a talking point — a punctuation for each ride — a measure for the passing time. These acres would be hard to miss : spruce, tidy in neat graded rows, march up a slope and out of sight. Grown on this scale to satisfy tradition from Victorian times, each tree must reach a standard height. November brought the harvesting : trees cut and bagged and stacked by size, were organised by lorry loads. Today the scent of burning pine wafts slowly over carriageways, smoke, like a veil across the trees, marks passing of this Christmas time.
TAKING DOWN CHRISTMAS CARDS He’s not some piper at the Gates of Dawn or little boy blue still blowin’ his horn and not a member of an Angel Band, taking a solo and making a stand. He’s not a herald about to sing or carol praises for a new born King; I don’t think he’d make a clarion call or lead poor shepherds to Christ’s tiny stall. He’s only a boy with a flageolet — that’s not a can of beans — please don’t forget! Captured mid-note by famous Mr. Jones, a recorder or flute’s what you should’ve known! He’s here with a “toot” so loud and joyous to wish you a very “MERRY CHRISTMAS!” Painting : Angel playing a flageolet by Edward Burne -Jones Flageolet beans : small, green, kidney-shaped beans from France
THE EYES HAVE IT Like most young guys, with his eyes peeled for girls, he was shocked and surprised when he eyed up the lane, breathtaking, special, a sight for sore eyes, she stood batting her eyes like a frog in the rain. She was a looker, eye-candy, head-turner, a statuesque beauty – such a feast for the eyes; he rushed to the window, “I must see her clearly!” Too late! — She had gone in the blink of an eye. His mind’s eye was was haunted by her raving beauty: almond and hazel, her eyes drove him nuts; lying awake he could dream with eyes open — but she strutted her stuff when his eyes were tight shut! All eyes and ears, he was out looking for her, with stars in his eyes he searched high and low, “A Venus in blue jeans? — I haven’t seen her, I’d try round the clubs, maybe they’ll know.” “Can’t eat, I can’t sleep,” he told his mate Andy, “Aye, unrequited lust!” laughed his oldest friend. “Dotting I’s, crossing T’s, is what ye’d be doin’… The pub! Wand’rin’ eyes, forgit lass, ye ken?”
PHOEBE'S MENAGERIE We didn't know what she would bring in next : our febrile cat, fresh to these fields and grass, exulted in the creatures she could find. Birds fluttered round our rooms until released; we set up humane traps for voles and shrews and twice, young rabbits, almost half her size, sat on her bed, beside her, terrified. Coming downstairs I sensed something amiss. Centred, the cat prepared to pounce. Attention focused on that small, black space framed by the apron of the dresser's front — a gap too small for cat or paw to pry. And when the cat got bored — goes off to eat — a pink snout snuffles out to test the air but into darkness suddenly retreats when sensing from slight movement that I'm there. After midnight, when cat has gone to sleep, her victim unexpectedly escapes. Scrabbling desperately with shovel hands on wooden floor moldyworp* finds no grip… So I admire that special velvet coat, release the mole on grass across the road. * Moldyworp : The Old English name meaning “dirt tosser.”