blckbird

Again I walked the wood,
As almost every day
Absorbed its mood
Mildly changing with each day.
The sun at dawn ,shafts of light
To send the owl to bed
Wake the trees, unfurl the ferns
Wipe away the morning dew,
My gloves safe in my pocket
Un-zip my jacket to the morning air
We are not alone,the dog and I
He visits friends,
Comes back when I whistle
Must run miles
As back and forth he gallops
Chasing phantoms in the sun.

I stop before the hut
Step into the past,
Feel him in the corner
By the crumbling hearth
There is no hello to greet me
He does not need me there
We are years apart
His life long since gone
The fire cold and black.

A shiver down my spine
I turn and call for Jack
He never comes in side
Never tells me why
I suppose to him its just a hut
An old man by the hearth
No rug to chew a bone.

The sun is higher now
The chill gone from the air
Crows cawing loud and friendly
The robin by my side
Did I hear a squirrel?
Badgers gone to earth.
Across the bridge and ditch
Its railway sleepers rotten
There’s been no rain,
No water for Jack to drink
We have some in the car.

Its time for home and breakfast
Farewell old man, I’ll come again
Maybe in the evening
But can we talk?
Tell me of the charcoal ,
The hurdles that you made
Pheasant suppers ,snares
And rabbit pies
The awful cold in winter
Gleaning kindling in the snow
Looking in the windows
On your way to home.

I was having coffee,
Ordered poached on toast
Could only have a scrambled
Why she couldn't say.
All right ,brown bread I said
A mistake,
Brown does not toast too well.

They came to sit beside me
A mother and her son
He was sixty if a day
Looked ill, dark sockets,half awake.
Concerned eyes staring at his mother,
Her walking frame and stick
Leaning on the table

He asked a simple question
Her reply I did not catch
But her face said all she had to say,
Bland ,smooth-skin and vacant eyes.
This was for them, a day in town
To shop and make a change
Before returning home
Where-ever and what-ever.

We did not speak or smile
I was outside their world,
They'd brought it with them
Couldn't shake it off.

As they left he rose first
Took the stick
Set up the walking frame.
Not a word between them.
I tried to draw his eye....
Cast down and tired and grey.
Out through the door he led her
So they were gone.....
Their world gone with them,
Like a tortoise in its shell
Not a lot to carry..........
Far too much to lose.

There is a world I know
Far beyond the window panes
Where others live and love
And children dead by ten.
Because there is a world back here with me
That thinks of other lives and loves
And children dead by ten.

Come to me under my coat,
stay with me and share,
there's room for two.
I have but one
the same for now and summer
but you need me as I you.
It is cold this night
and you are warm.
we have between us
but one coat,
too big for me alone,
a palace when together.

Where will the blackbird go
Now we’ve felled the tree and built the house
And burnt the wood upon the fire
Maybe he will nest in the antirrhinum bed
Or on the trellised wall ,with roses for his shade
Instead of hawthorn leaves.
Inside its warm a pity he won’t come in
We asked …almost begged but he prefers the open
Looks accusingly every time we meet
Pecks the ground,
Where the shade once struck,
It’s a shame I know but progress cannot wait
I don’t like those pylons or the power station stacks
(they spoil the view of the reservoir lake
And the sweeping curve of the motorway)
If I am to be warm I have to put up with them
But you can’t explain that to a bird.
He’ll find somewhere else I suppose
There are plenty of trees and hedges over the hill
Behind the pit head sidings.

Getting cold, ,better go in….isn’t ’it quiet….five already”
I have n’t cleaned the cage or fed the canary,
Must do it before tea…………..
There’s a programme on wild life at seven
I don’t want to miss that

All around there was a sound of green
a gentle murmur carried on the breeze,
the July noon was warm and slow
the sun burned hot when clouds allowed;
and so we stumbled on the stones and roots
the dogs in front and then behind
a hundred yards in all directions
chasing smells and phantom rabbits
heedless of the bramble thorns.
Pine resin in the woods,
behind their necklace gorse and broom
few flowers today,ragwort here and there
just one or two to warn the wary rider
its yellow jarring tone
contrasting with the sound of green.
No need for hurry,
the day as long as yesterday
or thereabouts,home not far away,
no further than the journey here
which took us forty minutes.
Deep in the woods the deer
waited for the cooling eve
their browse line plain to see
on the mountain ash, neat and horizontal;
and so we dreamed the day away
glad it hadn't rained,
gambled on the forecast,
gave the dogs a drink
ourselves a mug of tea
in the shade of a silver birch.
Home against the setting sun,
dogs sleeping in the back,
thinking of the sound of green
supper and a bone.

We took the table leg
set it on a stand,a nail at either end
and another in the middle
found a wheel from a pedal car
a solid disc and red
put the wheel on the middle nail,
we had our Lewis gun.
Stood vigil after school
shot everything in sight
but never in the night,
or mornings of a Sunday.

The Derwent Light Railway
ran at the back,
ammunition sheep and cattle
wobbled on its way to Dunnington
on spaghetti rails and grass,
stood on the concrete wash-post to watch it pass
butterflies to chase off Dad's spring cabbage
while he was at work,
then back to our gun beside the shed
its extra concrete roof and thickened walls
in case a bomb fell close.....
so safe against the blast
to be crushed beneath the concrete
(so Dad had said to Mum )
He was an Air-Raid -Warden,
had a ladder and a bucket
SP on the door to say we had a pump
They bombed the other end,
one went off and killed a dog
burnt the house right down
we were beneath the 'Morrison'
in the living room,bullets on the wall
the Lewis gun stood silent.
The playing field across the bridge its swings
and rusting roundabouts.
One Saturday afternoon
we found a railway detonator
hit it with a brick
shattering November's war time silence,
scattered to our homes and gardens
waiting for the Bobby....no one came
the guilt remains but Oh what fun !
The walk to uncle Harry's
was through the gas works snicket
tall gas filled towers grey with threat
smoking retorts cross railway tracks
no gates,look right then left,
all posh today,Mercedes at the doors.
One Sunday afternoon
they hit the tallest holder
they knew it was there
they'd built it in the twenties;
turned round went home for tea
but a Polish chap got them,
before the siren went
somewhere near the coast.
Our Lewis gun was silent,
watched it in our Sunday clothes.
Potatoes in the flower beds
tape on window panes
black curtains,screens to stop the glass;
but when the sun shone
we chased the butterflies,
ran to see the train to Dunnington
marbles on the way to school
soccer games between the grates
there was a war..heard it on the wireless
but we were kids and found it fun.

The Lavender hedge its bees and hover-flies
grey green leaves beneath the blue
somnolent in the morning sun,intoxicant
healing balm of sleepy pillow,
soothing 'kerchief, honey in a jar,
unsophisticated perfume
defending us against the moth
that we can sleep assured,
subduing lusty thoughts
making nights for sleeping;
Eros resting with his bow

He sings to me within the hedge
Follows me down the path
We both have time to spare
Have set aside a while
Away from streets where time is scarce
Few have time or inclination …
None to pause or listen.
The song he sings is quite unique.
Of all the millions on the earth
I am the only one who hears
that tune which haunts.
I shall not recall a single phrase,
but the message will remain.
Next time, ( and that tomorrow )
I shall wait beside the hedge
Remembering today

I remember the cup,white and huge
poured for him by grandma
sitting on the warm side of the kitchen table
he rarely spoke to us kids
but his silence was not unfriendly.
The mantle shelf above the fire
its oven to the left
companion set black sooty kettle
sitting on the black-lead grate
every Sat'day afternoon
Aunt Mabel sewing dresses for a living,
chapel choir twice on a Sunday
a scrap-book and a pencil
on the table sitting still and silent
every Sat'day afternoon.
The back-yard garden wooden shed
grandmas bonnet marigolds and beans
not as big as ours,four miles away
across the bridge at Skeldergate
My brother in the pram and penny toll
pilgrims,every Sat'day afternoon.
too far to peddle my little car
walking 'til my legs fell off
only eight,but tall.
soon there was a war grandma died and grand-dad
prostate I heard mum say.
The bomb was meant for the station
missed it by a mile
left the front door and the windows
blew away the marigolds and the garden shed
No more crossing Skeldergate
watching grand-dad drinking from his saucer
aunt Mabel sewing dresses
home and pedal car playing with our friends
every Sat'day afternoon.

We spoke each alone and far away
ether-wards our conversation
drifting in the breeze
guided by no more than random thoughts
met by chance,perchance to stay
If friends in need are we indeed,
who has the most of need?
I do not ask myself this task
not mine to say,I am half of two
I hear an echo,must I answer and if how?
I whispered to the hills,did not raise my voice
I asked for help,half afraid ,apologetic
there was no need,beside Emmaus road
I lay not mortal as I thought.
A promise I believed a promise to be kept
when next I hear the echo whispered to the hills

Let us float above the clouds
beyond the blue of wild belief,
where all, not possible on the earth
is ours for merely asking.
Stay close indulge ourselves
climb with the stars and planets
millennial years,watched when on the earth
but not believed for feet of clay.
What have we drunk.what in the glass
lying by the ancient copse
I drank of first and shared with you?
Disposed our heavy clothes,
left behind our purses and imagined cares,
then light as air clasped hands to float
beyond the blue of wild belief.

I leaned the bank and stretched my hand
beauty beyond my reach floating,coy,
bathing in the sun,sleeping on the water
rocking in the gentle waves ruffling in the breeze.
Did I see her eye-lids flutter,
did she pretend I was not there
as she had yesterday?
Should I swim into the pool
disturb the rippled surface
intrude upon her reverie?
Or stay my impatience,admiring from afar,
crimson petals and stamen crown
soon to fade,transient beauty
as with all her kind?

The sun-dial obedient to the sun
marks the time of day,
placid stands on the terrace walk
waiting for the sun to shine
casting shadows on the moulding brass
and we believe the passing hours.
No thought of minutes,
for timing eggs we use our watch
but for the passing day
the gnomon's shade is all we need.
An hour is near enough,does not enslave
as do minutes or worse,the cruel second.

A hill stands to the south
the sun is high at noon
tells me that the morning's gone
afternoon and evening left.
All I need to know.

Red rose for love,a white for peace
one of each what more to want?
They seldom share a thorny shoot
but snuggle close in bed
and throw back the sheets.
Embrace the red,cover her with kisses
then lie back,share the peaceful white.
Remember petals fall,mix them as they drop
do not let them fade but eat each one
feel the passion and the calm
red for love and white for peace.

There was a struggle in the air
retreating night and eager dawn
the grey white mists at half passed four
muffling the friendly battle,
tonight the fight will be reversed
without the use of fog.
They do this every day I call
say not a word swirling in the mist.
We all come out to see,the elves
in pointed caps grab my hands
pull at my coat and make me dance
steal my clothes until I am as them
uncumbered,naked as intended.
We dance about the wood
through bramble nettle sting and thorn
unharmed by nature's barbs
until the morning mist dispersed
and I see me as I am.
Where is my coat,I must go home
but the keys are in my pocket,
there are no fig-leaves in this copse;
but why must I go home?
Come with us I hear them say
live a life of berries,mosses for a pillow
we will knit a coat for you
as warm as you shall need
shoes of silver birch.
I look back along the twisted path
unsure of what to do,
your choice,they say,you come here every day
so why not stay,yes why should I not stay?

I dreamed the cooling eve
lay on the grass from noon 'til now
light grey clouds discrete hid me from the sun
naked found the rose deep red petals
lying close,so close ;I did not ask
good fortune like this comes but once
no thorns prevent my way
I did not pluck this flower
she (for that I did presume)
lay in the grass
we moved close or was it only I?
yes I think it was,
but she did not move away
I held her as a crystal goblet
took her to my mouth and drank
petals,limp in the cooling light
darkening in the moonlight
drew me close,emboldened
I felt a shiver,petals strewn about my shoulder
full awake suffocating in the blossom.
Who was this rose ? I did not ask
limp I sank into the grass
to dream the cooling eve.

Tangles in the garden,
roses soaring to the trees
babel colours held in spiders' webs
queues of caterpillars in the ragwort's yellow
next years moths and butterflies
warn away the donkey on the sandy shore.
crab trees heavy in their fruit
holy berries green,robin red breast
hiding in the glossy leaves.
A July noon heavy in the sun,
twice my height the rose trees
drop their petals;hips begin to swell,
fruit for autumn mists and fruitfulness
here we wait,sense the fading greens
pluck an infant bloom in its sepal cradle
try to stay the flight of time.

The air is heavy on my lungs
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.