blckbird

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.

There's turmoil in the air
atomic bombs,bank holiday,
I'll stay away from motorways
find a sleepy lane,a dreamy pub,
watch the children swing and slide,
crisps and parents laughter
grandpa with a whisky,water in a jug
fish and chips and pints,
grandma supping Guinness.
Dogs,Morris men,nostalgia in the air
forget the bomb,the flu and scandals
we don't need to know and
without the papers we would not;
are we any much the wiser?
just one day to break the cycle,
storms this afternoon have another beer,
tomorrow 's soon enough,too soon enough
Julie's fallen off the swing,
Johnny's wet his trousers.

Dark eyes,brows not as our own
no lashes to seduce
yet speak a thousand thoughts
unspoke,secure beneath a noble brow
nothing, unheeded, nothing unremarked
enigmatic companion understanding,
nothing passes observation
all accepted without comment,
each moment like its neighbours
lets time go by
but knows when time for dinner,
a walk depending on my shoes
fetching slippers in the morning
dressing gown and cups of tea
listening to the radio
there'll be a walk today
there always is...
watches every move......
rattling keys and tele' off,
a drink of water,sit and wait
don't get excited,just be good
it always works,
servility a potent tool.

The woodland path beside the lake
above the troubled waters tumbling in the wind
lead us through the trees,troubled as the lake
a wintry May day colder than last year
despite the bright sun falling to the west
should we go on.I'd left my hat behind
no gloves,could n't find the scarf
but by the kindness of Brook Taverner
at least I had a jacket oaken green and zipped.
We persevered a mile or so,sheltered from the shower,
turned a corner thought we'd found the sea,
so far inland ? could not be,this is central England
there before us a million bluebells,chiming blue
unperturbed by wind or rain,content beneath the trees.

I feed the birds with seed and fat
buy it down the road well worth the cost
queues fight at the feeders bouncing in the breeze
pigeons mopping up the careless crumbs....
too big to join the table.
Better than a soccer match graceful as a ballet
I watch behind the curtains long tailed tits
fifteen to a necklace nesting somewhere in the bushes
I never look,leave them to themselves
corners in the garden I cannot enter
left to nature,cheek by jowl they grow
stitched with eglantine,unkempt as in the field.
I walked a path last night before the fading light
had slipped behind the hedge,late orange beams
turning Wellingtonia's mighty branches into fiery torches
cowslips now with seed,pregnant primrose secret in the grass.
dandelion clocks no longer tell the time parachutes
impregnating neighbours gardens,yellow flowers next year;
unashamed I close the door there is a chill tonight
the blackbird ends his vigil must be home by dark,
leave the mouse and hedgehog to clear the festive board.
Another day tomorrow the stage crowded as today
who will act I do not know,there are no invitations
come as you are,bring a friend or more,children always welcome
there is food to spare and should it rain
take to the yew or ivy on the roof lifting up the tiles!
will regret my laziness one day but it looks OK today.
See you in the morning,but not too early Mr.Pigeon
five IS pushing it a bit you know!

I danced her rhythms long black hair
restless feet dark eyes and pouting lips,
to my shoulders stood and kissed my cheeks
promised more,if I would only wait.
to the floor her gown,swirling in the dance
heeding not the other couples and their knowing smiles.
No doubts,our searches over,no more need to roam.
Burns;this was his night,but we stole the hour
desecration of a poet's birth,this time was ours.
Thoughtless through the night we danced
gypsy beauty tall and sleek, sultry eyes and willing
breasts pressed close in scarlet,black and gold,
supple hips with promises a plenty and to be kept;
she was mine and I was hers,
soon my mistress,I her hopeless lover.

This is a dreamy land,at least for me
a dream of forty years
clear as walking with the children
through the oolite village,
thatch and shop and creamy stones,
horse droppings and careless cow;
all that is,now,from years long gone,
a pub with polished floor.
no dogs,no boots,fifteen quid a steak.
Ghosts of John and Arthur,along the twisting road
unchanged as when we drove the little car
we could not afford,to shop ten miles away.
Unhurried conversations,as the sun went down,
pints after lights-out,naughty boys asleep.
Pat the house-master teaching
how to squeeze a tooth-paste tube,
so many ways....laughter all the way!
Gardens then were filled with veg.
soft fruits,apples,potato clamp for winter
that,which grew,had to be eaten,
now with lawns and parasols
a merc outside the gate.
Such a pretty place it was and is
now none walk their children.
Bring your paints and cameras,
frame the pictures if you will,
I'll go home a picture in my mind
no camera in my pocket.