blckbird

The air is heavy on my lunges
the mercury high in its glazing,
white heat frightens,platinum not gold,
where once was warmth cruel shaft,
pierced tree and cotton hat.
The bird bath beside the wilting rose
dry,its tide marks whitening crystals.
I walk slow to ease my limbs
soon seek shelter in the arch
throw off my clothes,no one here to see
an afternoon of sweat and drink
my hair limp,not a muscle 'wake
sagging in the chair
its plastic wet,unpleasant.
even in the pond the sedges limp
birds panting in the ivy.
Six hours to dark and humid night
reach for the rose,soft and nectar laden
kiss her petals hear her whispered promise
suck sweet and slow buried deep in sepal green
and dream of evening's silken robes.

My mind is of a blank
Nothing I can do or should
I am not in charge,have not control
Just lying here,the light too low
Print too small,the Penguin pages fading brown
Not black and white;orange back in crumple.
What to write when mind a blank
Do I think of green-wood trees
Limes in linden-lea,stung with summer bees
Friends in terracotta streets,magnolia walls
Gossip tea rooms,diesel,fish and chips,
Rejoin the conversation I left ten days a go
Unchanged as always.
Family calls and telephones
Jack's coal black eyes sat at my feet
Thunder clouds and butterflies
Waiting for the rain?

The sickle lies in the antique shop
ash-wood handle split and loose
cast aside and with contempt
thousand years it gave us bread,
far more than swords and axes,
swung by women and their children,
helped by men between the wars,
rarely fought in autumn.
The Russians have it on their flag
flying with the hammer......
no guns on the blood red standard.
But here it lies,blunt,leaning on the wall
going for six pound fifty.
Stay awhile and doff your hat
to the labourer who swung this blade
bright and sharp,grey stone in his pocket
blacksmith,fire and quenching water,
taken home each night,wrapped in oily rag,
set beside the kitchen door and heavy boots,
coat behind the door,clip-rug on the floor
children round the table,smiling in the fire light
fresh baked bread and soup,
pray for sun tomorrow.

Crystals on the window panes
shining pavement walks and gurgling gutters
mirror pools and scurrying clouds
gaudy umbrellas,pink boots and plastic macs.
Today the grass looks greener,standing tall
wild flowers kaleidoscopic more than Jacob's coat
gold finch on the feeder,eager sun flower seeds !
seems not to mind rain dripping from her tail.
somewhere dry her brood,three perhaps.Who knows?
Birds dashing to their nests,never look to find them,
ethnic congregations,narrow chattering streets
of dripping leaves,dark alleys,ivy on the wall
happy in the rain or sun,(not so much in winter)
each day the same no matter what the weather.
My tea that bit warmer,no milk today,
bought too much on Thursday
spoilt the first cup of the day,
curdled as I poured it,will I never learn ?
Jack's curled on the rug one eye on me
the other on a walk........
he knows its raining 'course he does
takes his lesson from the gold finch
feeding in the rain.

There is tumult in the air.
Was it ever so ?
I watched a fight the other day
a black bird and a worm.
It was ever so.
I did not stop to watch
or even to take sides,
it was ever so,
blackbirds cannot live on bread alone.
Do I ask him not to call
not to warn me of a storm
simply because he killed a worm?
His forecasts will be sound as ever,
a dark side 'neath the feathers
it was ever so.

The old track crunches its way to Llangollen,
through fields and sheep and rain
racing with the road that Telford laid
the canal,boats,ducks and motor cars
all going west this morning.
Do you know the place its Eisteddod
choirs, and dancing in the street?
Red dragons flying high tall hats
and pretty women,Celts,Saxons,Vikings
foot steps,strange tunes from the Urals,
sopranos heavy in their blouses.
The parish church,its cassocked crow
en-caustic tiles,tunes in Welsh and English
bilingual prayers on Sundays.
Steam,stopping at the bridge
once going on to England
built over now,hotels and B and B.
coach park,pensioners,tea and cakes.
There beside the hurry of the Dee,
struggling through sleeping whales of rock
the station falling to the river
clinging to the bank,black slate tiles,
signal box,children on the foot plate
engine driver,dirty in his pride.
Clashing camera shutters,plastic wind mills
ice cream queues and candy-floss
babel voices,friends to meet again next year.

But today all quiet,March too early,cold and grey,
walk the empty streets dream July and sun
come again to join the merriment and song.
For now take coffee sit and smiling talk,
warm yourself before you lean the bridge
to watch the froth and roar
shiver,pull on the gloves and scarf
find again the railway track and gravel
now going east and home.

The thyme is buzzing by the drive
purple low and savoury in its tiny leaves
soaking up the sun,hover flies compete
defending evening supper.
Slow in the gravel edging
shaded in the morning
by Euphorbia's poison flowers,
ten years at least and many more I hope.
Of lighter hue the rosemary
sometimes shares a meal,or crumpled in my pocket
with lavender and southern-wood
as in child-hood days,
this one fragrant ginger lingering on the hand.
An old clay pot entraps the mint
beside the curry plant sweating in the heat;
forgot to plant the garlic cloves last winter
where mild Welsh onion grows untidy clumps
oregano in a chimney pot,marjoram in English
supervised by dark green bay.........
Elizabethan garden below the double glazing,
dozing in the Sunday sun

The garden wilting in the heat
trees take on the sun,defiant limbs aloft
shading tender plants and scratching birds
the shade as welcome as a shower;
old oak seat bleaching in the sun
bosoms,thighs and painted toes
linen hats and sandals,cotton shorts
children by the dozen,not allowed to run.
Enjoy the flowers,read the Latin tags
this is serious stuff, gardens to be enjoyed
grandmas and dads,but children please be quiet.
The fountain's there for fun,water falls and bridges,
you must not splash in plastic shoes
this is not Llandudno !

The tumultuous day now closing
raging winds and thunder fight the setting sun
shadows long,grey fingers on the grass
its green once bright and clear
daisies tight lipped,closed at noon.
The month had started well,six days more
June the chance to start again? I doubt.
put away my scarf and sweater,
cotton now I thought and linen hat,
across the field,above,and round about
the growing shadows,crows and hawks
stretch their darkening fingers,black
pointing to the right,
towards the setting sun.

What lies beyond the hill
the path bending seems to narrow
but we know that is illusion
it tells us of the journey to the top
no longer than it seems;
counting fence posts strung with wire
stumbling stones,flowers at the edges
which way are we walking;can we guess?
if early,it is to the south
late,we travel north,soon to be dark.
If the day before us we have time to see,
see what lies beyond the hill.
Turn around the easel tell me what you find.
As you travel north evening at your left
hear the blackbird and the early owl
then home,dreaming to the cold white moon
rise with the dawn to ride with Phoebus,
listening to the lark.