blckbird

We clockwise walked the wood
threw the dogs in turmoil
trees and smells reversed
kept close for once...
" You expect us to obey
that's what makes us good
meals at eight and seven
bed when we are told
but can we have
the other way tomorrow?
anti clock-wise
is what you call it.
we heard you say it
only yesterday."

Had not noticed the colour of the walls
drinking coffee from a mug,
a plate and Danish pastry,
the Times to read beside the door
rain outside, prams and umbrellas.
Now at eight the blinds are drawn
up lights with triangle beams
light the walls now red and cosy
the door springs shut,
the world outside, behind,
candles on the tables, flowers in a pot
knives and forks and bread-sticks
hum of conversation briefly stops
smiled hellos, come in.
Merlot, from the supermarket
bought on the way to dinner,
well worth the three pound corkage.
The place transformed,
the welcome mug at noon
nowhere to be seen,
a table mat
where once the Times was read.
Metamorphosis in a trice.
A menu to be read..Italian
translated underneath.
We chose, unscrewed the bottle
ciabatta, meats and olives
gentle music, whispers
knives and forks and clinking toast
waiting for secondi.....
Good night and paid the bill
Dusk at half passed nine,
empty streets and threats of rain
memories......wine and food
red painted walls, candles on the table.

I sat in the sun leaning on the grassy bank
The air droned with bee and fly
It was hot, my eye-lids heavy with the day
I fought to keep them open as she stepped down
Her skin smooth as though carved in Rome.
Her toga slipped at every step, fell in tumult folds,
I lay back ,tried to see her face against the noonday sun
Which at her back gave halo to her beauty.
She smiled shameless as she strode towards me
No gown to hide her beauty; pride in every step,.
She knew what she was doing, took charge of the occasion
"I am woman see my thighs" as she stood above me
The sun was in my eyes, dazzled me,
But I could guess the promise she implied
She stooped to kiss my brow, I kissed as she intended
Found her warm not stone.
I had walked the garden many times
Admired a far this beauty coy and distant.
Why, this day, did she step down, why to me this gift?
So the day continued, how long I did not count.
Again she stood above me
Lay down to share the grassy bank, the sun behind the hedge
We kissed again...she goodbye, I could not speak the word
Turned her back a symphony to rival Brahms.
Then to the cold stone plinth, virginal and coy again
I watched her walk away, regret in every step,
One last smile, her hands discrete
Her breasts a memory on my lips
The garden bell disturbed my reverie
left her to the night
sleep sweet lady sleep alone
I shall return but not to dream
Such as this comes only once.

I lay upon the mossy knoll
cool damp cushion,soft as green
soaking from the spring below
flowing crystal clear
from the valley's heather moor
purple in delight.
Honey bee and nectar
competing clouds and curlew
heavy scents and morphic resonance
turned day to night.
Heart beats not my own
syncopate,then unison.
This is another world
I seldom tread or as I do
soon forget the way,
memories I cannot share,
can scarce recall your being
but home returned refreshed
soaking from the spring below
heavy scents and morphic resonance
honey bee and nectar
purple in delight.

In the thistle bed
you play the flute to rival Pan
dance to rhythms all your own
no ballet pas de deux,
alone you skip and jump.
Outside the copse,
humming in the evening breeze,
an orchestra of leaves and branches
accompany you, extempore;
from the heart, not of the mind.
Listen hard, this comes but once
from whence we do not know
innocent as bramble juice
drink deep, autumn is so short,
blow hard just this one time
then hear your parents' cries
goodbye, my gratitude, goodbye
your rhythms returned
to dance another day.

The wrought iron gate closed us in
Not locked but proof enough
Against street cries and bustling bus
Filtering the noise squeezing between the rails
Loud enough to guide us back
Should we wish...if we should wish
Jack and me,my friend and I.
Few shared the gravel crunch
Its puddles and its mud,
Unlike the stone-clad paths outside
Where one can rush, from shop to shop
Foot-fall-sure and level
Only pedestrian clash to spoil the day.

Listen !...eavesdrop on the blackbird songs
See them love and feed their brood.....
Leaves whispering in the breeze
Here is space and spare,time for thought
Rainbow choice, gold and green
Wind blown songs that fade
'Though never die but join the library
Where,stored in alphabet and order
A million years or more from now,
Share their space with other sounds
Eroica,Beatitude,ranting tyrant
And mundane BBC.

Deep the wood,remnant of the chase
Stillness lets us hear ourselves..........
Lub-dub... lub-dub of healthy hearts...
Left right,the feet reply,slow,predictable.
Room here to walk and dream,
No barging rushing crowds
No false "sorry sirs"
(Whose fault,anyway?)

The world is not a crowded place
We crush each other in the train
Because we will not take another route;
But here there’s room..........
Grasses,touching in the lawn
Having space enough
Make way for dandelion clocks
And timeless daisy.

We came to walk and talk
Recreate... think .....rest awhile....
To leave behind the din of making money....
The gaudy coke.....
Three for two,or two for one,
Gum strewn pavement slabs,
Take-away,throw-away
And eat-out shops,
But what we found was time.

I scratched my way through the hawthorn thicket
A sunny day and dry
tall course grasses rushes moss,
waiting for the winter’s flood
sure as Christmas Eve.
Jack was on ahead along the narrow tracks
worn by fearful rabbits ,rats and mice.
The meadow unkempt and free
bent to the cold May breeze
which carried sweet hawthorn petals
to the city in the north.
We were quite alone.
A diesel whistled, miles away;
a silent Kite carried on the wind
a meal to chics who soon will find their own.
I thought I heard the heart beats
Stood still to watch the carnage
Last night I heard the fox and pheasant
saw the silent owl,white tail in alarm;
this is a world I do not know,
took more care in the hawthorn thicket
ignored the scratches on my arm.

Call it luck
no matter what the shape
sometimes round,or square,
triangular,sometimes as a star,
but never once do you decide.
A gift,unwrap it if you will
fold the paper..
creased and in the draw
yours for life or less
pass to friend or family,
careful wrapped and tied
........................
'tis for them to open.

Laughing through the daisies
skipping with the wind,
dodging rain drop crystals
What a life you lead
full of joy (and danger)
cheering all who see;
your powdered wings
rhythmic comfort
beneath the stormy clouds.
Your brood now gone before you
hiding in the eves........
behind the kitchen curtains,
to spin a web and dream
of summer days and roses
wile away the winter days,
wait for open windows
welcoming another year.

The evening lingered,
no one wished to leave
Bateman's in the glass,
at least in mine
Lemon Dream my friends'
'sleevers' all (no handles)
At the bar the others
drank their fill and more,
Vicky pulling pints galore
steaming glasses filled again;
the terrace warm enough for us
the tables joined in conversation,
slats to let the beer drip through
pickled eggs and Wenlock faggots
real ales our purpose here
eight in all,with funny names.
fussed with pride
beneath the brass and ebony handles.
Saturday fading faster now,
home to feed the dog;
four enough for anyone.
cross the railway bridge
silver lines and moonlight
stretching out to London;
three quarters ringing out
home by twelve and Jack.

The lanes are in a turmoil
fever in the air,dust and diesel smells;
the bar is empty the car park still
anxious faces at the windows
none to sleep tonight,pheasants partridge
dash for the wood,watch for the fox
rabbits too and midnight moths
wonder at the noise.
lowering clouds add to the mood,
not rain again,not rain !
Gentle summer days forgot
waving wheat and oat,late evening sun
have done their work,
pints of beer have helped,
but now there is no time for fun
village fetes again.......next year.
Thermos flasks of tea,sandwiches in boxes
diesel tanks full to the brim
six foot wheels bestride the lane
stretch from verge to verge
townies keep away tonight,
our head-lights stare you off the road
the brake-lights do not work
we have no time to waste
there's corn to win between the showers
no one HERE on holiday.

Your wings in tatters
vying with the honey bee
lavender perfume calming
this one last day of flight.
Where shall you go this night?
sleep one last rest
on the shepherds purse,
one last clutch of eggs
In the morning sun.
I shall not seek your resting place
shall miss you making love
seeking for the clouds.....
I must learn to fly........
some times I think I can.
Transient beauty,sleep deep
no more to fight the rain,
your brood returned next year
the lavender,the bee and I shall wait
the winter shorter by your coming.

Delius 'Song of the high hills'

First night of the Proms
music lovers listen in awe
naked 'neath the dome.
strangers newly met
yet in one orgasmic moment
taken by surprise, so soon !
music beyond belief suspending reality
waves of bliss like summer seas
take us where we dare not dream,
bodies minds and souls combined
transports outside ourselves
music more than that we hear.
High on the plateau to linger,
once in a life time so few lovers find
every nerve ,each violin string untouched before,
the oboe out its box, pursed lips upon the flute,
pulsing timpani, throbbing beating hearts,
erotic fingers pluck the harp
rhythm ,harmony combine, no need of words;
learn a language, long neglected.
Lovers walk those hills, they're not so far away !
Write of love you poets !...but words have feet of clay,
soar with Aeolus rise above the earth
Venus, Cecilia and Eros, for your company.
Lie still upon the cloud to those high hills
your thighs embraced as ne'r before
be unafraid ,enter this forbidden space.
and learn of ecstasy.

Quiet stand the trees
no breeze today,
filtered sun-light
through grey clouds motionless above.
Plain-song chanting,
Sunday worship from the birds,
unified and unison.
No harmonies disturb the melody,
one song to rival all your symphonies,
gentle,like petals
on the mill-race stream random laid,
careless and carefree.
Josquin,never wrote like this
Schumann too, I'm sure you will agree,
and all self-taught;
practice through the day
with friends from branch to branch,
joining in when space is found.
I have no pen with me and if I had
I could no more recite those runes on paper
but 'til memory fails
shall take away,each day I call
those songs so random laid,
careless and carefree.

The storm took us by surprise
caught us in the garden
admiring the deep red rose
drinking wine,fighting off the wasps,
candles quenched.....our last defence.
bees intruding on the flower
struggled with the petals
eager for the nectar and soon for home;
we watched,joined in their desire;
but then the storm and parasol
threatened our tete a tete.
Like confetti for a bride
petals fall to float away
bees and wasps anxious for their wings
rush for home....
all silent now;
a wine glass on the table
spilling through the slats
empty bottles,soaking cushions.
Robin clearing up the biscuits.

Pebbles on the beach
works of art,unique in every way
babel shapes wrought by waves
both salt and fresh
perfect asymmetry;cosy in my hand
choose any one, or more, hold close;
from far away they come
millenia in their journeys,
here to rest awhile, roll on the beach
rough youth smoothed and polished..
Dogs will chase you in the foam
others stumble, take you home,
throw you on the rockery
mix you with the quarry stones
course and random shaped.
Do not despair
let me hold you, this last time
kiss as did the waves
which formed you as no sculptor could,
roll you in my hand, thinking childhood games,
then lay you in the bed of time,
to dream your journey, once again,
across the seven seas.

A simple tool made from hedgerow trees
a little long for me; some one else in mind,
its shaft from blackthorn, slightly bent
inherited from the hedge row scramble
had long since learned of compromise,
this added grace gave charm to strength.
The head cupped in my hand is holly
a handsome African, perhaps from Ethiopia,
carved and polished with sweat of years,
benign beauty in its simplicity.
I was miles from home
Horse and Jockey is its name
A favourite drinking hole,
spoke with them, a lovely woman
No more than twenty five
Heavy lines criss- crossed her brow
Two life-times carved into her face
her beauty undiminished.
We talked, the three of us
got on well, talked about the stick,
her horses, his trees and hopes;
mundane life, boring as I write
must not pass unnoticed;
we drank but did not count
checked our purses, laughter and one more.
Too soon was time to go.
I had miles to go and said goodbye
as I left he handed me the stick
told me I could take it,
I have it now, its shiny shaft and holly-head
Melchior warming in my hand;
only use for best
best with linen jacket, shiny shoes and tie.
Have not seen them since only met them once again
but think of them each day I use the stick,.
a favourite gift from strangers.

The day had long since gone
A glow lay to the west fading fast and sure
Foot fall insecure, twigs snapping
Moths and money spiders’ silks impede
A gothic gloom weighs down
From trees once green and berry laden
Now in shades of black and grey.
Honeysuckle at the woodland edge,
Memories of daylight hours receding
This is a world I do not know
Of badgers, voles; a secret place
Which I intrude and stumble
I am unwanted no one lights my way
Here is another side of life
In which I hold no shares
Do not understand as once I thought.
Each day I call, enjoy the colours and the songs
To rival Jacob’s coat, and plainsong monk
But never once before this night
And never more again shall I intrude
This dark, dank, secret place.

It's late and the moon
in her wisdom sinks
beneath the trees.
There is no need to compete,
rule the night,rest the day,
sleep with the owl and
leave the sun to hay and jay

I found the grotto in the wood
the source from which I drank
the sun was in a rage
fought away the clouds,
I should have rested long ago
rested on the mossy bank,
but I was young and knowing better
than to waste my time with sleeping.
But I was wrong..............
the road was long and I was tired
a rest could do no harm,
the nymph held out her hand
drew me to her parlour
let me sleep the day until the dusk,
then sent me on my way.

The thurible swung rhythmic,
incense smoke in columns to the roof
gossamer silver white and sweet,
the Host raised high
above the cassocked priest,
monks silent all in black
bowed to their golden abbot.
All silent where we watched
beneath the tranquil sky,
blue with morning light.
pillars rising with the smoke
contradicting all we heard,
the pillars real
solid as the Benedictines
long since gone
but the incense smoke was not,
the magic of a thousand years
held us in thrall.

But the children stood impatient
the foot-ball at their feet
"Daddy can we play now?"
rang round the austere nave,
and they were gone.
The incense smoke gone with them
blown with the morning mist,
a pigeon flapped across the nave
a rabbit scurried home
and so the game was started,
daddy keeping,jackets for a goal
church bell calling matins.

The day starts cold,not yet eight
why did I rise so early,not like me !
the night was short,I did not wake
no owl or pigeon in the trees
rats in the border,did not bother Jack
his bed,like mine,not in turmoil,
the open window letting in the rain
neither of us moved all night
undisturbed by dreams.
the mind a blank fresh for the day.

There's nothing more to say,
the night was perfect
such a none event !
as every night should be.
Take a walk around the garden
in my dressing gown,
glistening gravel on the terrace
the lily waiting for the sun
her petals closed,yet stirring
no bees about,but they will come
and I shall watch and listen.

Nearly nine and dark
August closing in
early lights and cooling nights
Indian summer,winter soon.
The myrtle flowers late
Aphrodite's mystic rose,
soon,her coal black fruit.
Green berries decorate the crabs
Rowan red and hawthorn hanging fruit
Seems but yesterday since primrose blooms
seed pods ripening for next year;
next year......Are we ready for it ?
Russets, matt and brown
sweeten with each day,taken by the wasps
The year is closing down,
do you notice no more cuckoos?
One more Bank Holiday,
the calendar on the kitchen wall,
four pages until Christmas.

Day-light dawned
awe struck birds silent at the orange glow.
The porphyry font glowed in the early light,
crimson petals, still, asleep
closed in calyx comfort waiting the searching bee.
I sat to watch the shadows fade leaned to touch ,
half afraid to scare the water boatman
skimming in the lily pads.
reached across the ferns at the waters edge
withdrew each time ashamed to wake the flower.
Waiting for the sun,lying on the grass
shivers down my spine,I saw the petals open
the lily flower drifting to the shallow beach,
let me kiss its velvet crimson
stroked away my cares,tasted of the nectar
sweet and honey scented rare as oyster pearl,
woke the nymph within the bloom
who stepping outcast away her mantle
and came to lie with me.
Offered more than I could hope
from the lily I had kissed..
The world turned up-side down
spun in dizzy circles,
all sense of time was lost.
The sun now on my back....let fortune show the way.
How long we lay ,I did not count,until the spinning ceased.
Then she rose and slipped away,floated to the lily pad
to wait the searching bee.

I passed the rose who tore my sleeve
pretended not to notice the intrusion
every time I come this way,it is the same
not spoken for weeks, hides behind the thorns
sulking,turns away her fading blooms.
No buzz of bees,no butterflies.

But round the corner there is a pool
full of golden fish and croaking frogs
water boatmen,swifts gleaning on the flies
languid lily the dragonfly her lover;
watch them from the stone surround,
roll up my sleeve and cup my hands
to take a cooling drink

Jack is stretched in sun-light
Upon the Chinese rug,green and pink
Most days I find him there
Waiting for a sun-beam
He knows exactly where it will strike
Not a centimetre out!
Black as night, but flecks of grey
Now that he is six.
He does not talk a lot.
Barks now and then,usually in pleasure.
Never known him angry
He does not bite,nor do I smack
He sleeps inside on cold nights
Conservatory in summer.
Would use the car boot every day,
Sleeps in there on holiday

We have a favourite wood
Go there every day
Sniffs round the hut,I've told you
And wees on everything!
We rarely shop in town,
I go alone for coffee
All he asks a biscuit ,maybe two
His bone is chewed in half.

Known him all his life
Been with me for two
Used to work;now he's company,
Although look out rats!
There's one...there's always one
Which sets urban hearts a flutter
I am a country-man at heart,
Do not really care
I let live and let live
No need to kill......

Today is like all days
It will rain or not
shine at times,storm and blow,
But one thing certain
There's a walk somewhere.
He'll find it sure as eve
One eye's open now,
Look out for the other!
Must get dressed
Jack will watch, impatient
Never bothers when I strip
No walk if he sees my toes!
Shoes a different matter
The sun is out, looks quite warm
I don't know what the news is
Neither,care,someone will tell
I've no doubt.....
Bad news travels fast and far
The good has to be found.

Well one more cup of tea
Shave and shower, comb the hair
Dress and off we go to do again
As yesterday, rehearsed......
"In the boot Jack"
"Mind your nose"...... and clunk,
Belt up and start the car
To the wood again

Fold slow sweet chestnut
your arms entwine
mirror moon
pull back the drapes
have known you long since
played conkers in your shade
made love in your cool light.

We leaned your trunk
wrapped round our coats
looked down the lane
felt safe,
it was ten and dark
no one cared.
you did not shine
too bright, that night,
to make us blush.