POETRY

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Here's a selection of my poems for NOVEMBER

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

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POPPIES They fell amongst the poppies there, in Flanders Fields in Passchendaele; we promised to remember them : their war to end all wars. Not long ago, in poppy fields of Helmand in Afghanistan, young soldiers still gave up their lives – it seems we never learn. And, as we lay our poppy wreaths, a bitter harvest far away will help destroy our youth today – a hidden kind of war.

NOT AN ODE TO AUTUMN Only crab apples on the trees; a cold wind blows across the lease stirring the spent brown leaves that cling where just the jaunty robin sings. Late Autumn mists can quickly hide all vestige of sun, moon and tide. In leafless woods and barren fields the future slowly disappears : on Autumn days that bring despair a chill of death hangs in the air. My mind has seen the seasons round but Autumn has me trapped and bound. Written as a response to “Ode to Autumn” by John Keats. Lease = dialect for open pasture or common land.

CLIVEDEN in NOVEMBER No breath of wind to stir the morning mist, trouble fallen leaves or grasses’ fragileness. Red maple flares — reflected in dark pool, no birds to sing, now all around is still. Briefly, low sun illuminates the scene : touching late berries by the water’s lip where elephant - grey gunnera decays… Quite motionless, the languid heron sits. From gilded fish above the Chinese room and on, past house and parterre to the Thames; from orangery, with blaze of pink nerines, and algae covered statues in the trees. It is as if the world has held its breath : this moment set forever by stilled time, as in amber, or a bubble, beauty rests — until the spell was broken by a chime… Somewhere a muntjac barked, a chainsaw buzzed… and, in the big house, staff prepare for lunch. Then, like an after-thought, a robin sang prompting hushed birds, “Come join in joyous song!”
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BIRTHDAY (for M.G.) Not making it was really no surprise. So young at heart — the numbers ran too far for one who wouldn't countenance old age. Ironic that the birthday treat we planned should now provide the menu for your wake. I wonder, shall we sense your presence there? — when tragedy in life you couldn't take. I can't stop thinking of you on this day, with memories of all the times we shared; it's hard to grasp that you're no longer here — that life should stop, like turning off a switch. I think of your beliefs : the Golden Shore, a journey through a tunnel filled with light : a chance to be upon another plane close by — existing parallel to life. But could it be there's nowhere else to go? — oblivion, blackness, no true happiness... And at that thought my foot slipped on the stair — as if a hand had nudged me in the ribs.

FROST FLOWERS Their secret blooming marks the coldest night. As star light shone down from black velvet skies, hoar frost etched glass with icy flowers. By dawn frail snowflake petals crowd cold panes, each blossom perfect as a precious gem. Now morning’s here red, sluggish sun, too tired to climb the eastern sky, has fire enough to start a thaw : dissolve to water drops fine filigree, evaporate night’s magic touch, form beads like rain on window panes.
Photographed outside my backdoor in the dark and the rain...
HEDGEHOG (for Amber & Darryl) Stepping into the rainy dark I brushed against you with my shoe and stopped, mid-stride, surprised to find you waiting here outside my door. Why have you come this Autumn time? We needed you on Summer nights to clear our plants of slugs and snails — they stripped the hostas bare this year! Maybe you’re seeking shelter here communing with our friendly cat, who watches from the half shut door and safety of a warm, dry mat. I pick you up — you roll up tight — a spiky ball in pouring rain, I place you near the garage wall with food, water, sheltering plants. It’s like a blessing that you’ve come, we hope that you’ll decide to stay, a shelter, made from a large pot is in the border dressed with hay.

NIGHTMARE The Government’s NATIONAL PLANNING POLICY FRAMEWORK states that there should be a “presumption in favour of development.” Imagine no more horses, their pasture torn from view, no rabbits and their warrens, no heron, deer or shrew; imagine all those houses growing in our lanes… Imagine big earthmovers, hauling our lives away, grubbing up the blackthorn hedge, ripping out the may; imagine all those workmen with their bricks and sand… Planners say I’m alarmist – but I’m not the only one; I see rows of starter homes and concrete in the sun. Imagine no green vista : no view towards the stream, shiny homes climb up our hill to steal a rural dream; imagine all those people and their traffic jams… Planners say I’m alarmist – but I’m not the only one; I see rows of starter homes and concrete in the sun.

DEATH of the POET Till now, he’d never thought of it before : how charity shops live off the dead. Taking a pride in what he gives away, her clothing clean and carefully pressed, four bin-bags mark the passing of a life. And life seems slight when it’s so easily packed away; her treasured possessions – aspects of her life – lose their relevance, separated from their owner’s past. Emptying shelves and drawers, he discovers nothing’s really owned by anyone – possessions outlast owners come what may and, in death, we desert them in the end. Leaving the shop, he hurries on his way, taking, as his keepsake, all her words.

Cliveden in November