POETRY

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Here's a selection of my poems for APRIL

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Narcissus - John William Waterhouse ( 1847-1917)

APRIL

This season’s rushing in like a mad hare —
now everywhere I look there’s bloom and leaf;
this morning more fresh birdsong fills the air
and green begins to show on sluggish beech.
The rising sun has melted back to dew
an early mist that blanketed the hills,
bright dandelions hide the tiny shrew
below the apple blossom’s first pink frills.

Bluebells fill the copse near Wesley’s Mere
and, in the hedgerows, ransoms start to show.
The old grey urn has been bees’ home for years
as, from the crack, the busy workers flow
to visit more and more enticing flowers —
enjoying sun, dodging sudden showers.

GOLDFINCHES

Exotics, on dull Lenten days,
outflank drab sparrows’ dismal show
with tinkling, bell-like calls in flight
and flash of gold as off they go —
a charm of finches bob the hedge.

Pushed to the margins of the farms
where tractors spray with herbicides,
goldfinches seek untended scenes
for spiky teasels, thistledown
and groundsels’ tiny wind blown seeds.

Kept as a charm against the plague,
then caged for beauty and for song,
they almost died out in the wild
till keeping them was seen as wrong
and Parliament came to their aid.

Yet, down the ages they’ve appeared
in pictures of the infant Christ :
companions for a tiny child,
as symbols of the sacrifice
and passion that was yet to come…

These sweet-voiced, gold-winged tiny birds
pulled out the thorns to free Christ’s crown.
In doing so, his blood was spilled
and blessed them with a love profound —
marking cheeks red as sacred birds.

My Father, in Polish Airforce Uniform ( 13.04.1920 - 11.09.2012 ) and with me at the time he taught me to ride my first two-wheel bike... TO THE END OF THE ROAD In far-off days the road was clear and safe enough for Dad and son to practice with first two-wheeled bike. Gripping the saddle post, Father steadied bike and son and, pushing at a gentle trot, sought balance. Wobbling down the road they went with Father jogging to keep up — his grip on bicycle so light. And I could see his shadow there, supporting me along the road, until I noticed it had gone… I thought I’d left him far behind but knew that he was always there and with me now to the road’s end.
SAINT GEORGE'S DAY Begins in the traditional way with birdsong, blossom and the flag in places with a village green, a Norman church and shiny Jags. Since early childhood we have heard legends of a glittering past, but conquests and our heroes now are rising through a different caste. As kettles boil the breakfast news reports events that form a theme of how, when heritage is lost, the nation loses self esteem. "Our policies are now in place with Forums for Equalities, Britannia has changed her face, hip to the new realities." The men in suits divide and rule, they spin all facts to suit their game, whilst on estates in problem towns the flag is used to fan the flame. In terraced rows and high rise flats we quarrel over worthless crumbs, our changing culture will arise armed and dangerous from the slums. Out in the park an old dog snarls at mongrel puppies rushing by; by boat and train the future comes, shivering under leaden skies.
ON THE STAIRS After the old boy died, we stayed to clear the house. Only half awake on a moonless night, shuffling to the bathroom in the dark, I sensed a movement on the stairs. It was not you – sound asleep when I got up — but there was something there… almost a light, yet somehow shadowy, and a sudden chill in the air… Then, muffled footsteps on the stairs and the overwhelming scent of lilac.
THE HALFWAY HOUSE Its popularity is not in doubt: close to woodland, a lake and country walks, with welcoming bars and cosy snug, an events room, favoured by local groups and prize winning beers… What more could you ask? Separate, a stones throw from the village, with the next settlement some miles away — its name seems strange, being half way to... Where? The publican and customers don’t know; village drinkers talk of “goin’ halfway” — yet never question how their pub was named. Muddy hikers, map in hand, track it down; poets from town, booked into the back room, know all about E.T.’s “pub with no name”— but not this house’s etymology… Seated in the rose bower in the garden is the village patriarch, old Ted Light. He says he has no clue to this inn’s name, “But I’m ‘alf way to heaven here with me pint.” E.T. ‘s “Pub with no name” is a reference to “Up In The Wind” by Edward Thomas.
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