POETRY

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Here's a selection of my poems for JUNE

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FLAMING JUNE  by Frederick  Leighton   (1830 - 1896)

JUNE

Brilliant early sun.
I cleave to sleep.
My tattered cloak of dreams
still clings to me.
Pulling it tight I turn —
caught in her beam.
Does this sun ever rest?
She comes to me —
gentle as a lover,
gossamer dressed.

So, waiting, Earth prepares :
petals unfurled,
bird song to herald her —
slumber disturbed.

Creeping, she comes melting
shadows. From her
radiant look the cool
young breezes fade.
Now in her nakedness

she visits me.
Her touch is everywhere —
Queen Midas of
the fiery embrace —
gilding the very air...
There is no hiding place.

    Rose : "The Poet's Wife"            

CONTACT

Sometimes the meaning comes in code:
reflections on a pool; flower tints;
sea, sky or hills as cyphers.

Or information set in tongues:
bird call; the constant drone of bees;
whispering grass or cold wind’s song.

Keeping air waves clear, tuned to all
known frequencies, I wonder will
I hear…. Your message understood ?

GOING GENTLY
(Minnou)

Rescued from abuse — we had to build your trust —
you sat and watched our other cat and learned.
So timid then, your instinct was to hide
and once, in terror, threw yourself down stairs.

We watched and saw your confidence return —
the garden and the sun became your friends
and everyday you’d make your way outside
or watched from windowsill on days of rain.

We gave kindness, food, shelter and a home
and in return you offered so much joy,
repaying us with closeness and your purr
and with a gentle love, so unreserved.

Now, as the days grow long, your life grew short
as age and illness wasted you away;
despite our care, the medicines and love
are useless now and can’t postpone this day.

You rested, feather-light in midday sun
on friendly lap, content with stroking hands…
and with a gentle breath you slipped away
like thistledown on wind… and pain was gone.

THE BENCH

Weathered silver-grey into a landmark,
anchoring this garden to the sky;
attractive to inquisitive magpies,
a seat from which to catch the sound of larks.

Above the house, in birches’ leafy shade,
on sunny mornings it’s the place to be —
somewhere to enjoy a morning coffee,
to take a seat and rest, put down your spade.

Cutter-bees visit bright hypericum —
nest building : it’s leaves they want to steal;
above the bench red kites turn and wheel —
soaring on air, sky their chosen freedom.

An orange sunset silhouettes the bench,
into the dusk fly moths pursued by bats —
their aerobatics confuse our watchful cat
who’s used to robin’s flight or bounding finch.

Night. More stars than Van Gogh knew. Above,
Perseus scatters ☼Summer’s***shooting***stars…
And, on still air, an owl cries from afar —
From near this bench a Tawny’s call of love.

PRIVET

…I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning, than this bitter one
(Old Man – Edward Thomas)

Initially, like Thomas’s “Old Man,”
this pungent smell is difficult to place :
familiar – both bitter and yet sweet —
it does not chime with me like other scents.

Hovering on thick air like memories,
it stops me in my tracks and makes me think :
arriving in fresh waves, just like the past,
it leads me to a hedge across the street.

Carefully shaped : dark leaves cut trim and close,
do not disclose the very thing I seek
but, where the shears have missed a growing tip,
tiny white spikes of flowers now persist.

There, softly in late sun, scent speaks to me :
transports me down the vista of the years
to where an old man, dressed in corduroy,
flashes quick shears, watched by a lonely boy.

My Grandfather, Fred Lapington and me...
MAGIC MOMENTS Evoking our lives, we seize the magic — those precious moments turn our hearts to gold, conjuring memories with ancient photos: family, friends, effects we cherish and hold. Grandfather Fred brings his kind of magic — that coin from my ear when I was just three; lighting meths to flame on table tops — removed water marks by pure alchemy. Friends from our past and shots of our wedding, the children on beaches — here’s our old Ford! An album of cats, see homes that we’ve lived in… these magic moments always strike a chord. Fred Lapington was a French Polisher. He used the heat from burning Methylated Spirit to remove water marks from damaged furniture.
PERKINS’ FARM Trespassing. Secret borders of the farm where boys from our estate would stray between banked dead nettles, cow parsley and the stream. Beyond the cinder bank the broken barn : ramshackle cars, forsaken old machines; nearby, deep water channelled over rocks, splashing bricked sides below the ragged docks and once, dream like, kingfishers here were seen. Above the rocks the stream more calmly moved : watery home of rat and vole, hunting ground for adventurous boys with working slug gun, catapult, stones... and aim unproved. Then there was our Tree : a crazy willow leaning giddily across the stream, an unsupported ladder of green fronds — span for the stream that flowed dark and deep below. High in the crest (some said where lightning struck) the trunk had split : a hollow gallery. Here we perched, The Boys, full of bonhomie : joking, boasting of girls, cursing our luck. It was The Muckers tree — formidable to climb, with bark worn smooth, nowhere to grip, the sloping trunk.....and water should you slip — crow's nest view : prize for the brave and able. But then the farm was sold. Our Tree dug-up when brook was channelled, dredged and gentrified. Farmhouse and barn were bulldozed down. We sighed for lost forever fields of buttercups, the herds of Friesian cows, and meadow sweet. When land was levelled – hedges all grubbed up — school replacing orchard and pond’s kingcups — Our landscape turned to houses, street on street Today, more suburbs march across green space. We concrete over land our parents knew; but landscape should be children’s rights and due, yet more and more is lost without a trace. Muckers – Gloucester dialect for friend or mate.
TIME PASSES Wasted time! What has become of me? Direction lost, each day was too carefree — mistakes are easy to find… Looked everywhere, chill in the air and my sun, lost to all that greying weather. Listen to the voices of friends, comfort found in what they say — “There’s bound to be a better way, soon see life is on the mend — finding sunshine again…” Looked everywhere, that chilly air and my sun, lost to all that greying weather. They said, “Keep a hold of your schemes — it’s a simple truth to tell, but if in visions you can’t dwell, try different themes — maybe you’ll find a new dream…” Looked everywhere, now sun is bright, the fields are green, it’s the summer of my life! Outlooks changed by time and weather, cold winds warmed — light as a feather, seasonal changes — coming together, we remember all past times… It’s strange my mind double-takes reading verse by William Blake — took great care with all his rhymes — Time for bed as midnight chimes… Looked everywhere, chill in the air — I hear muffled steps on the stair… Looked everywhere, chill in the air — I hear those muffled steps on the stair…
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