John Ottis Adams - November Freshnet |
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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.
Lease = dialect for open pasture or common land.
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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, passed 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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WINTER JASMINE
The start of Winter’s tyranny
came early this November day :
dawn breaking to a freezing fog
that wreathed and changed familiar views —
the distant houses, lights and trees
were drowning in a milky light.
Later, sun’s restricted glow sparked
icy glitter from frosted plants;
rime ice, capping the fence’s rail,
became more obvious to see
like cobwebs — each strand ghostly white.
From bare hedgerows the red hips glow
beneath the ribs of barren trees,
but Jasmine, on the garden’s edge,
shines through the mist, its tiny suns
a challenge to the coldest days
and, with Mahonia’s yellow flame,
brings comfort to these darkest times.
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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
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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.
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WIXEY’S FRUIT & VEG.
When I was just starting Junior School
we crossed the City, moved to our new home;
brand new estate, with brook and fields beyond,
lots of kids to meet, places we could roam.
Back in distant days before Ocado
and supermarkets’ home delivery vans,
milk was delivered in clear glass bottles,
left on our front step by a man called Stan.
Once a week a lorry brought Corona —
their fizzy drinks back then were all the rage:
Dandelion & Burdock was a favourite,
Orangeade, Cream Soda, Cherryade…
Tartaglia’s vans visited on Sundays,
their jangling chimes filling the estate,
kids would rush home for their ice-cream money,
queued on street corners – we could hardly wait!
Each Saturday the fruit and veg arrived
on Manley Wixey’s limousine and cart;
in the battered car spuds on buttoned seats —
this “gentleman’s conveyance” no longer smart.
Manley was red-faced, an imposing man,
with cider stashed securely with his spuds,
that demi-john was emptied on his rounds —
it was as if the cider was life’s blood.
The fading elegance of his old car
became a home for other things to trade:
strings of rabbits, pheasants and other game,
elvers in Springtime ...anything that paid.
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WARMING
White petals are falling
as leaves spiral down
from the final rose
in a small English town.
No blackbird at sunrise
to greet a new dawn,
or thrush in the evening
predicting a storm.
The feeders are empty
and all birds have flown;
through the empty streets
wind whistles and moans.
In burrows and warrens
wild creatures lie still;
no cattle in meadows,
no sheep on the hill.
The land has been dying —
the green turned to brown,
there’s no sign of people
in the ruinous towns…
The roads are abandoned
and covered in moss,
the asphalt is crazing —
parched surface is soft.
In fading graffitti
on a hoarding is penned :
There isn’t a future —
so, welcome the end.
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