blckbird

Half passed nine and sunny
still in my dressing gown
Jack fussing for his breakfast
What's in the news today?
will find out when I go for coffee
listen to the other drinkers
regurgitate the Mail
believing every word.
I'll read my paper when they've gone
share it when I'm home
just like Dad with the Reynolds News
Chronicle and Yorkshire Post
We never had the Wizard
never saw the Beano
read the Childrens' Newspaper
do you remember that?
The little library in the corner
school prizes some from Sunday school,
most were Mum's....
Treasure Island.Bronte,
Golden Treasury, "every thing you need to know"
a forbidden book on anthropology
hidden at the back learned a lot from that;
but more and to the point from the medical book
beside the neglected Kingsley
Then Sunday nights at half passed eight
the Sunday Play on the wireless
Lorna Doone and Fumanchu
Dickens.Moby Dick,
eating supper at the table
never on our knees.
Nostalgia is not what it was
or so I've heard it said
but I think I've told the truth
This is what it was.

A welcome call near seven
half expected but still surprised
a long day, on next Thursday.
Autumn tints and mountain roads
Bodnant our destination.
Turbines flashing in the sun
close knit in families on the hills,
white sleek necks above the moorland bogs
spinning fifteen to the minute.
Revolution in the air,conquering wind
the future in the sky,while sheep beneath,
graze the cold blue moor.
There is much to talk about
and that we will............
narrow lanes and oak trees
tales to tell of holidays
fenland scenes,churches,barns
all that makes the east
so different from the west,
flat and black-soil fields
I missed the green and white
of Wales,red kites and yes the rain.
But best of all,at least for me
thick brown hair, with its hint of grey
and pretty eyes that smile all day.

The farmer's ploughed the field
while I was away;
the sheep are gone,
all now flat and brown;
mole hills and electric fence
dismantled,but they'll all be back,
you see, the moles that is.......
some of the lambs for Christmas.
What will he sow so late?
the fifteen acre is pale green,
sown a month ago,
wheat for next year's harvest
no doubt he'll sow wheat again;
our summer walks no more
until the aftermath returns
with clover,vetch and rye
mole hills,pheasant squawks
crows in pairs tugging at the worms
starlings in their thousands.
The woodland in recession now
moulds and toad stools
feasting on the leaves,
smells of peat and autumn rain
bracket fungus in the bark
plump and yellow in the evening sun.
The pace has changed,the hour goes back
daylight paler soon to be dark at five;
the undergrowth more open now
bracken long since brown,
fern fronds bow to evening frost;
open sky and silhouette branches.
Fourth act of the play that we call Year.
We have watched...
sometimes climbed the stage
rehearsed our lines,sometimes forgot,
applauded and complained,enjoyed the theatre
laughed and cried..... sometimes terrified.
Days are shorter 'til December.
When it rains clean out the barn
lean the bar do those things
for which you had no time
when walking in the sun.

I am waiting
a game I often play
can be played by one
doesn't work with two
unless she's late
but then I'm on my own
so it's just as good as one
gives me time to think
of things we're going to do
coffee first at Costa
a chat and pretty eyes
once a week and sometimes two
sometimes even more
where shall we go today
always country lanes
primroses in Spring time
heavy coats and leafless trees
weather is no problem;
home by half passed six
all the year through
waiting for the next time
to see those pretty eyes.

I'm getting back my hour
they took it in the spring
never asked if I would mind
have never worked out why they do it.
When a kid, and dads went out to war
they made it two, so
we went to bed in sunshine
to save on lights and coal
But farmers didn't like it
upset the cows they said
so when we'd won,
and search lights were no more
they took one off us,
Bin like that ever since.
At least they do it on a Sunday
two a.m I think, but the chap
who does the parish clock
doesn't work on Sundays,
normal time will resume, again
just like it was last year,
by Thursday at the latest.

My pen is dry, I cannot write
my wrist is cramped and cold
but I must try a history.
I have seen such things
you would not believe
autumn leaves the least of it
no rain for fourteen days
except a little drizzle,
gentle winds and fluffy clouds
red kite watching asphalt roads
badgers in the gutter, stoats
stretching long across the roads,
white tails in alarm, hedges
maple trees orange red
waiting for the first sharp frost.
Crows bramble black
waiting for a careless mouse.
Beers with funny names,
bitter hops and friendly talk;
home tomorrow leave behind
the harvest trailers
potato full scratching in the dark
before the winter time;
home to see my dog,I left behind
and wished I'd not
country walks are not the same
when no one says come on!
but there's a bone and biscuits
in the boot where he would sleep
a present from my holiday.........
next time he'll come with me.

Mournful in the stubble field,
shining black and golden beak
cold late sun cruel
glistening on the barrels,
orange cartridge,silent on the ground
a panting dog waiting for the "fetch".
Country day raw in tooth and claw
a life-time now, alone.
Away she flew,dazed and careless
to the lonely wood,
waiting for the shot
which did not come.......

The drought continued late into the night
my sandals dusty in the peat and leaves
it was light, no more than six.
(late for us,the dog and me
an hours walk,then Hobsons Choice
a pint,within the statute limit)
Black lace stockings on the fence
reminding me of early days,
or should I say of nights
when nylons,too expensive
to discard so carelessly
were folded for another day.
Through the ginger bracken
the woodland more open now
the birches, lost their leaves
oaks orange red,acorns in their pipes.
today the same as yesterday
as will be tomorrow.
So beneath the gothic pines,
echoing modes and plainsong chants
black-hood crows,
compline eve and evening star
to light the stile......
lace stockings on the fence.

Dusty leaves and three weeks drought
cooling in the autumn glow
five o'clock and low above the hedges;
the hour still with us;
soon it will be dark
curtains drawn and orange hearth.
October,winter's herald, home for tea,
"In the car Jack" down the dusky lane
left behind the quiet wood
no rooks in the sultry pines
black feathers strew the ground
a cartridge here and there.....
Safe behind the electric fence
our field, its clover, out of bounds
until the sheep have had their fill
to take them through the winter
waiting,with the starlings.
for lambs and mad march-hare.
pale and blue the cloudless sky
expanding in the fading light.
Seven Stars beckons by the road,
too good to pass at one pound fifty
(and that a pint for Barnsley bitter!)
served with a pretty blouse;
an hours fun and laughter,crisps for Jack
the bright lit bar,children cuddle Jack
mum and dad and grandad animate with me
their dog black.....like mine.
Then home to lock the garage door
bolt the back-yard gate.....
fading green and rusting hinge.

Two of a pair,both of the earth
symbols of affection
declaring love and loyalty
to be worn in faith;
of the body and the soul
do not use them lightly
gifts as these, give only once
they are rare and must be so
one discrete upon the breast;
the blood red rose fades fast;
declare it every day.