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SPRING RAIN

Spring rain is soft as spider strands,
It tickles cheeks and chills our hands,
It pauses on the velvet sprigs
Of blossom smiles on yawning twigs.

But never trust these gentle drips,
For any moment winter’s whips
Of lashing hail, or snow, or sleet
Can blight what once was soft and sweet.

WHEN BLOSSOM FALLS

When blossom falls
Like pastel butterflies,
And a soft warmth
Kisses the walls,
Winter’s power stalls.

When birds fly
In joyous arabesques
And the blue returns
To the blanched sky,
Winter’s passing by.

When leaves burst
From tight cocoons,
When tulips pause
With lips pursed,
Winter’s done its worst.

When children run
And call and laugh
In a park gilded
By the setting sun,
Winter’s gone and done.

SCHOOL CRICKET

Beyond the undulating grass,
Beyond the whispering of the trees,
Below the birds that idly pass,
White trousers ripple in the breeze.

A run, a hurl, a ball on wood,
A shout or two, a sudden scurry,
A scrabbled chase might just come good,
But no one seems in vital hurry.

A fielder tugs a falling sock;
The batsman gives it all, and more,
Fumbling fingers fail to block
And the ball trundles on to gain the four.

Sheep-fleece clouds sit in the blue;
The umpire semaphores with style.
Despite the speed the balls shoot through,
Time seems slower for a while.

The scoreboard shows a close-run match;
The batsman barely makes a tap,
But that’s an unexpected catch!
The sparse spectators calmly clap.

Some tell the young nostalgic tales
Of bowling tennis balls, and less,
Of shattering stick-made stumps and bails
On scrubby scraps of course-mown grass.

But here’s a field of velvet green,
Two full elevens, huge trees in sight;
Like art, an almost faultless scene,
Though some have part outgrown their whites.

Heroic dives, embarrassed wides,
Cow corner*deep in private leisure,
Dejected pro-pavilion strides
Across this swathe of emerald pleasure.

These hours are hours that memories make,
This game so forged of hit and miss
And tea, of course, with scones and cake.
Is anything
More English summertime than this?

*For those less knowledgeable about the peculiar language of cricket (like me!) I am informed by my son that “cow corner” is the position where the Captain might station his least skillful fielder, far away from the action.

HALLOWEEN SHOPPING LIST

A dozen plastic spiders,
Cakes of gooey green,
Chocolate headless riders
Because it’s Halloween.

Two crackling bags of lollies,
One pack of webby strands,
A box of cinder toffees,
A pair of gory hands.

A bag of tea-light candles,
Some tea-light candle dishes,
A cooking pot with handles
For conjuring evil wishes.

A tray of toffee apples,
A glowing Perspex skull,
Sound effects – creaks and rattles,
Paper cups that aren’t too dull.

Piles of monstrous corn snacks,
A hair-hung witch’s hat,
Light strings – two or more packs,
A battery powered bat.

Assorted masks. And PUMPKINS,
And pumpkin carving kit,
A child-scaring something…
To scare them a little bit.

A creepy pass-the-parcel,
Face paint, for demonic grin.

And an entire haunted castle
To put all this stuff in!

IF YOU GO OUT ON HALLOWEEN

If you go out on Halloween,
Your courage you must take.
Glance up to the sky
And you might spy
The flit of a witchy shape.

If you step out on Halloween,
You must not fall to fear;
A screeching cat
Could be just that,
Or something else you hear.

If you pop out on Halloween,
Be truly brave to the bone;
Shadows are fine,
But they creep up your spine
If they seem to have lives of their own.

If you stroll out on Halloween,
Don’t let your nerves take hold;
Are those innocent lights,
Or the eyes of the night?
Are you feeling suddenly cold?

If you nip out on Halloween,
And a church comes into sight,
Don’t imagine the sound
Is the whispering ground
Of the graves, as you rush through the night.

If you walk out on Halloween,
Be sure you’re feeling strong;
If you think it’s a bat
When the breeze stirs your hat,
You won’t be out for long!

PUMPKIN LANTERN

I have a hideous, homely grin,
Round face,
Angular, blind eyes,
No chin.
My life is short;
From fruit to creature,
Shell to soul,
Animation to vacant stillness.

Nature nurtured,
Your passing thoughts,
Your dexterous hand,
Have made me;
Yet I turned into myself.

I am young, yet ancient,
And today’s past is my abode.
I am remembered but forgotten,
Watched,
But not necessarily understood.

I shall perch in your kitchen,
Be sentry beside your doorways,
Go on grinning
While my fiery heart smoulders.

I shall be compost soon,
But I have shone like the moon.

GRAVEYARD

Here lie the lives of the town,
Here whisper the words of history;
The pain and the pride in the tumbledown
Crosses and urns and ivy mystery.

Here sleep the Thompsons and Smiths,
Here stay Sabrina and Mary Joan;
The shine and the shadow is the soul of this
Hard transformation of life into stone.

This shadow of mine, blue blur,
Falls on the words of wife and son,
The hope and the loss of the burier,
The desired, the achieved and the never done.

This shadow of theirs, cold form,
Falls on my feet as I walk away,
And wherever I move in the world of the warm,
This shadow will stay.

SEPTEMBER

This is the season
Of uniforms sharp-pressed,
Of new school gates swinging back
Tacky with fresh glistening paint
Like the hide of a wet reptile.

Sharpened pencils, orange, brown and green,
Foretell the destiny of the trees,
Their leaves going out in a glorious blaze
Before branches turn to grey pencil wood.

This was the moment for goodbyes,
And for tearing along the sand,
And for the shrieking from icy splashes
To trickle away to a distant untouchable place.

This is a time of greetings,
New friends,
New coats and scarves,
And heavier feet.

This is when a chill tickles you at night,
When the sunlight softens like melting butter
And morning takes longer to get going.
Noses know the damp,
Breathe bonfire smoke
And remember last week’s barbecue.

The swifts have gone,
The young blackbirds strut confidently;
Rounded, banded spiders
Colonize the straggling remains of the summer pots.

All prepares for sleep, or for struggle,
For hoarding and for closing in,
As the ice cream shop boards up
And the garden furniture is folded away
Again.

A shadow of ritual
Lies in the blackberry jam.
They may wrap apples and pears like presents,
Or become bored of fruit crumble and custard.

PIANO

As May beckoned June, when the day waned,
When the dusk dusted smoky tones
Over the lawn and the shining blossoms,
A piano played.

Out of a window notes flew,
Butterfly bells above the grass,
Over the new-green trees;
They called to the blackbird in the whiskery pine,
Lighting on a couple’s heads,
Who stretched with them,
Reached with them,
Rose with them,
Sipped them
With a glass of wine.

The piano played,
Chuckling on the breeze between blocks of bricks,
Pricked the ears of a grandma eating tea;
It brought her thrumming memories
Of love’s sweet pain.

The piano paused, gathered, grew, poured
Its crescendo over yawning crops,
Gilding the yellow fields,
To dip, to duck, to all but curl up and die
Beneath a hedge.
A dog walker, lone talker,
Almost felt he heard its tender sigh,
And the dog came to nuzzle.

Away down the river,
Away down the river,
Phrases trickled,
Softly shifting on and breathing through the reeds,
Playfully jiggling the evening gnats.
The notes raced,
They raced their tempo,
Beat their time,
Came hopping, skipping about the stones
By the sea.

Beach-combing boys stood a moment
Regarding the steely stirring waves
Before turning home.

The incantation caught the swell and met the moon,
Which showered the water with brilliants,
Its aura spread upon the fields,
Entering in glory
Through a little window,
So the piano glowed.

CHILLY BILLY

Oh chilly Billy, have you clammy toes,
Have you cherry cheeks and a tomato nose?
Are your blue eyes icy and your fingers numb,
Are your lips the colour of a fresh-picked plum?

Oh chilly Billy, being cold’s no fun,
We must make you toasty warm like a new-baked bun;
We will wind you up in woollies like a little sheep,
You”ll be pink as peaches as you sniff to sleep.

And oh, chilly Billy, when the summer comes
You’ll have snaking toes and dancing thumbs;
Your hair will glitter golden in the blue green light,
And you’ll dream of lying softly in the sun all night.

RAIN

I love the rain.
It drips, drips, drips like inside caves,
With slatey pools the paths it paves,
Where rings of ripples circle out,
Inviting us to splash about.

I love the rain.
The cars lit up as if it’s night,
A dark day world of silvered light,
The green. green glow of trees and grass,
Our road a snaky looking glass.

I love the rain.
The whoosh of wheels like dragons’ sighs,
How the window cries and cries,
As if to take the whole world’s sadness,
Pour it out, then glitter gladness.

A SPRING WALK ON THE DOWNLAND

My children
Become children once more
Up here.

Just us,
The eternal, kaleidoscopic slopes and skies,
And a clean breeze.

Lolloping like playful puppies,
Lithe and nimble as deer,
Bounding through the grasses.
Unfettered and selfish in their progress they seem,
Thoughtless even,
And we feel the weight of moral obligation
To remind them
That some small creature,
That a whole world of such,
Might be disturbed,
Might be destroyed,
By too much careless, carefree
Charging about.
Yet still they fly.

They act as if they own the place.

Things are inevitably crushed
By the innocent joy of being here.

THAT TIME AGAIN

The frost was thick:
The crispy leaves
Were dripping from the trees
Like copper snow.

And by the glow
Of Halloween pumpkins,
As longest nights were coming,
We thought of Christmas.

Firelight kissed us:
With comfort food
And wine as red as blood
We warmed our hearts.

We dodged the darts
Of sparkler light
Around the bonfire pile,
And fireworks scented.

We hugged, contented,
Blessed – but were
Surprised that an entire year
Could be so quick.

VOICELESS WORD

Petals red, like drops of blood,
Spilled out above the patch of mud,
As if the soil could not forget,
And urged the world to still remember,
To see a poppy in November.

Tissue-thin the flimsy flower,
It weakness bore a sudden power;
Born of blood, of tears, of sweat.
And through its silence could be heard
The echo of the voiceless word.

THUNDER

Before the storm came blanket skies
That seemed to lay across the trees
And smother every breath of breeze;
The air pressed in, like life restrained,
With all its energy contained:
It pulsed, it throbbed in palms and eyes,
Until, expected, something snapped.
A vast celestial whip was cracked,
A non-existent foe attacked.
And rain released its gasps and sighs.

EPIC AUTUMN

Autumn stalks the weary grass
And waits to pounce upon the listless trees;
He watches for the weakness of the drought
And feigns with rain when water’s sparse.
He sends his minions in the chilling breeze,
And in the gales the terror of the rout;
With sparkling mists he proffers peace,
With jewelled trees pretends to offer plenty,
Hides in fruit the poison he will bring.
And as resistant struggles cease,
He ushers in the blinding silver entry
Of his tyrant Lord and liege, the Winter King.

JANUARY

January is like a grubby, wet cloth,
As disconnected from
The warm glow of Christmas-time
As a grainy, gritty puddle of slush
At the foot of a sparkling snowman.

There is no point to January:
Hibernation and hardship,
Producing nothing
But the occasional trembling snowdrop
Which has no winged visitors.

A wash of watery sunlight
May lighten January,
And looks forward to better things;
But it has not the heat,
Nor the potency
To slacken the cling of the mud
Or soften the serrated wind.

THE NIGHTS ARE DRAWING IN

The nights are drawing in, they say,
The darkness comes to coat the day,
The sky-fire heat is gone.
But I love lounging in my bed,
A pillow plump around my head,
Whilst Autumn tumbles on.

I like the smoky smells of dusk,
The diamond dew, the leaves of rust,
The crunchy woodland floor,
The jewels of berries on the trees,
The freshness of a temperate breeze,
The warmth inside the door.

I feel the night’s close mystery
When I am still awake to see
Its shadows and its lights.
Imagination draws a spark,
There may be secrets in the dark
When days are partly nights.

I sense in me more black and white,
Less green and grey, more dark and light
As misty mornings grab me.
I’ll make the most of bonfire eyes,
Of cosy beds and apple pies
Before the Winter stabs me.

WET WEATHER 

Summer rain is trickling down,
Tickly down
My ankle slide.
My head is catching drips and drops,
Plips and plops:
Where can I hide?

Summer rain is slopping down,
Dropping down
My arm and thigh;
My face is wet as in the bath,
Bent to the path
Where puddles lie.

Summer rain is head to toe,
We’re quick and slow,
And shall not pause;
Nor will the rain that floods our feet,
That shines the street
And glitters grass.

Summer rain is pounding down,
Sounding down
To fill my ears.
But I am safe inside our door,
The rain can roar
But I’ve no fears.

SWIFTS

When the swifts soar off to Africa,
Swoop by swoop, wingbeat by wingbeat,
There is an emptiness in the sky.

Fanned pigeons will come,
Clamoring and clumsy,
All fuss and bother,
Without elegance.

Grubby clouds roll in,
And leaves begin to desiccate;
Velvet grass has turned to sacking,
As last year repeats itself.

Swifts are either joyously free, or condemned,
Spending their lives in flight,
A never-ending journey
Following summer.

But we endure the gathering storm
Of annual regrets
That summer was too chilly, too unappreciated,
Too short.

Farewell, you soul-like flyers,
You kings of sky,
Turning on a great breath.

Our hearts go with you,
And how we hope to see you yet,
To feel another summer.