Bungay, Suffolk
Skies that spread to the world’s edge
Clouds that climb each other’s shoulders
Wide water meadows rounded by rivers
Flowing to boat-bound broads.
The sun smiles on endless days
Stretching back to times
When castles and churches ruled
And still do, towering over thatch and tile.
Mauve and pink the walls, like the sunsets
Blessing an early autumn.
St Gabriel’s Stream in spring
In emerald vale you wind your wistful way,
Deep down in bluebell woods, by garlic banks,
Through soft earth laid with fallen oaken leaves
And broken branches ripped by Channel gales.
High above a buzzard mews and turns,
Mobbed by cawing crows and screaming gulls.
It finds a refuge up in Golden Cap,
That rears above the fields and woods below.
Deserted village, ancient chapel passed,
You dip and fall into a world of scrub,
Where snakes and lizards find themselves a home
In warmth so rare on windy seaside shores.
Adder
Our long day’s walk it was
nearly done.
A day of sweet grass and sharp
gorse.
Our souls were recharged by
the green Sussex downs.
And their lambs, their cows
and their hawks.
We’d cleaned out our lungs in
the stiff salty breeze
That the cliffs had thrown up
to inhale,
Disguising the rays of a
burning sun
That assaulted our skins so
pale.
A first summer’s walk, our
legs felt the pain,
So we dropped from the hills
to the town.
From time to time with a
whoosh and a whirr,
A cyclist came whistling down.
The ring of a bell made us
stand aside
And then to the path we’d
return.
Once, as we looked down, we
saw in our way
A finger’s length adder, so young.
A pattern of zeds lined up on
its back
Beaded eyes in a miniature
head.
The first time we’d seen such
a snake in the wild.
So still, we first took it
for dead.
We thought how to save it. She
picked up a stick
Enticing the snake to embrace.
It curled itself round and
she lifted it up
And placed it away from the
race.
A feeling of virtue suffused us
that night
As a well-earned sleep closed
our eyes
Communing with nature makes
townies feel good
The snake was a bonus, a
prize.
The number 31 from
Axminster to Bridport, market day Flood
The rain just poured and poured,
warned of the flood to come.
Streams and rivers swelled,
burst their banks, and in the town,
rising waters reached the doors.
Sandbags failed to do their jobs
And people went upstairs
To mourn the damage.
Boats floated in unusual places
On top of cars, through doors.
And then the dam burst
and the surge came.
The waters left, mud covered all,
Outside, on roads, and in houses.
Below the town, cars lay tangled
And compressed in scrap heaps.
Bodies lay cast on the river banks,
Their clothes ripped off,
naked like the cows and sheep
they lay with.
The farmers saw their crops
Shaved off their bare land.
And now the people tremble
When they hear thunder. Country garden in summer The hills that rise and fall, and hedges dense With hazel, holly, oaks and shooting ferns Adorn their sandy banks – a greenwood fence In which a thousand rabbits take their turns To dig their burrows, safe, so dark and deep That foxes won’t get fat on dining here Nor wheeling buzzards, kestrels diving steep. And yet they do, for hunger conquers fear. Our garden lies beside a meadow, lush and green Where cows who’ve lost their calves now quietly graze. Do sad eyes mourn a life that might have been, Or is this yearly loss forgot in days? And so our lives, in gentle waves we spend With troughs of grief, more often near the end. The leaning apple tree You took me for granted. In spring, you saw my branches, Heavy with sweet-scented blossom, Like all the Dorset apple trees. Where was your famous human rationality? You shaped me lop-sided last year, And made the situation worse. Not trimming my long North branches, Stretched out to receive the sun Shining over the bank to the South. I succeeded, so was weighed down that side. You saw my blossom, healthy on the branch. Replaced by many buds - few dropped early. You should have known I risked tilting. With ground-dragging branches, fruit-heavy. Nature does not always know best! The mower-man assaulted me. Just wanting to complete his job. Who can blame him? The grass grew madly. By then, you knew I’d be overcome with apples. You could have written off a few, by summer pruning. I could have taken it. And so, I began to lean over. My South West roots emerged through the ground Who knows what damage winter frosts will do? So please prune me early this year. Pull me back upright, bury my roots again, To save me for next year. Morecombelake mist The mist hovers at hill-top height, Hesitates, hoists itself a little, Then descends, blocks our view, Cooling the air, bringing autumn to summer, A moist blanket spreads down our valley, Suffocating plans for a sunny day out. The ballad of Tess She came of Dorset country stock. Durbeyfield was her name. A maid so fair was never seen, A rightful source of fame. And as times passed, her dreams grew great Of leading a better life. She hoped that someone smart and rich Would take her for a wife. And so it was that Alec came, False kinsman, him, for sure. Paid court to Tess and won her heart, Then had her like a whore. Her babe was born, she loved it so, Though Alec went his way. She rocked and nursed it in the fields, Midst scent of new mown hay. No matter that she loved her child, Its life came to its end, And Tess was let with memories sweet Of damage she could not mend. But still her beauty stayed with her And Angle, like a moth, To her bright lantern flickered close And plighted her his troth. The day that they were wed, our Tess She sold him of her woe And though he loved her with al his heart, He knew he had to go. Our Tess was left all by herself And anger became her life, Her dreams were lost, but Alec found, She stabbed him with a knife. She paid the final price poor girl But she’s still here to tell Young girls that dreaming has its price. It leads direct to hell. Late spring 2013 | Beckford Bridge
The sudden hump’s redundant curve,
its substitute a flat, slab-bridge,
crosses the charging Yarty,
swelled by storms,
tearing apart its sandy banks.
Summer-leaved trees fringe emerald fields,
laced with pungent dung, and
sunbeams skating
across the vale
paint rainbows on a sudden squall.
Through flinty furrows,
wheat has quietly shoved,
accompanied by a swirling symphony of
water’s bustle and lamb bleat.
The Hardy Memorial
Far on the ridge we saw you standing,
Propping up a gloomy sky,
A suffocating sheet spread over land and sea.
When we stood near you
Your distinction disappeared.
A bare black brick tower
Amid barren waste
With threatening signs
A private place,
No parking, no picnics.
Pay now or go your way.
And so we left.
Kestrel
Sky-hanging, wing-tips barely moving
Wind working for you, ruffling plumage.
Watching every movement on the ground,
Seeking your target’s fur or feathers.
If you can’t see one, you move straight on.
Find your next aerial watch-tower,
Hovering until you’ve checked the ground,
Then moving on. In our hills, no cars
To do your work, leaving you road-kill,
Just your energy and vigilance.
The abundance of rabbits, squirrels,
Voles, dormice, or larks, tits and field-fares,
A feast if only you got them all.
Then you see a rabbit. Your wings fold,
You dive, talons extended fully.
Last-minute braking, but you’re too late
Your intended prey found its burrow
Just in time. You rise again, soaring,
Until you find your next hunting ground.
Without hesitation, you know where.
You had marked it long before your dive.
So you proceed until your meal’s found,
A score or more hovering places,
Until you are sated and you’ve filled
The bellies of your partner and chicks.
Mount St Helens Forde Abbey, Somerset -
Open Day, July 212 Warm-stoned ancient abbey, clock tower-crowned Walls and windows reflected in A small, shimmering lake, Bordered by bright green grass. On a slope under shady trees, We sit and watch the sun-drenched world, Neat laid-out stalls, busy or quiet, Owners unsure what appeal they lack. Suddenly, shooting up, The wind-wafted fountain Sprays the lake edge, drives dozing Picnickers back to dry land. Announcements flow, fuzzy, distant, jumbled, A man who loves to hear his voice, Half-obscuring far-off trains and planes That add layers to the summer’s buzz. The visitors stroll, undistracted, Some young, some old, some barely live. Too many pink-skinned, seizing a rare sunny week, Ignoring the risk. Old ladies with hats, some thin, some fat, Wobble walking-sticked round the stalls. Husbands long gone, handbags strapped Over skinny chests or pendulous breasts. Above the park, vintage cars Ranged in rows of shiny pride, Reflect their owners’ age and Bring our own memories back. Losing Lyme
Warmer winters bring daily deluges, drenching Dorset. Hills are heavy, soil saturates, turf tilts, starts to slide. Groaning ground awakes the town, to tell them their futile fight to resist ruin has failed, and East Lyme slips seawards. St Michael’s tower topples slowly onto its side, broken trees creep casually, like stiff snakes while Mary Anning’s bones are bared. Lake storm The sun’s reflected in the glossy water, but a breeze begins, turns into a wind That works hard to ruffle the surface Creating waves, while storm clouds gather And gusts turn the lake into a raging lion To threaten sailors, but then abate And the mirror slowly returns. Heat I stand at the bus-stop, burning, sweat trickles down my leg, into my shoes. The sun bakes the roof and me, senseless shade, no respite. The church clock strikes steadily, Marking the long, lingering hours of Summer noon, when dogs doze and humans hide from the heat until the evening breeze blows. Stonebarrow Hill in
winter I close the door, go through the gate Turn up the road, into the path My boots sink through the cloying mud. I climb the hill, through mud and thorns Emerge and breathe, the gorse behind Spread out my arms, as does the bay Below the sky - a weary blue That fights the clouds, their edges gold From setting sun that disappears And leaves behind a dozen greys As clouds and sky merge into sea. The icy wind cuts through my clothes And as the light begins to fail I turn my back and leave the bay Go down the path, pick up old wood To feed the fire that warms the house And keeps away the winter’s worst. The wind The wind blows And wakes waves In serried rows. Fierce the wind blows. The lighthouse glows Saving ships. Fierce the wind blow, Waking waves. Golden Cap dig 2011 Three thousand years ago Four nobles died, were laid to rest In mounds heaped up, for all to know. And when the wild wind from the west Whips up the waves along the bay, It gives the cliff its sternest test. The sand and clay are washed away, Encouraging the cliff to fall And turn the sea a foaming grey. Behind the edge a crack once small Now opens up and breaks apart Reveals a fresh and sandy wall. And now the slip has reached the part Where four mounds mark the heroes’ grave And so the digging had to start. Lulworth Cove Sea of tranquillity, enclosed in a bay Carved out by Channel breaker-storms Smashing the hard rock, then the soft chalk. We climb the ridge, look down on you, Hemmed in by the thunder of artillery fire, Rippling its echo across the sea. Next day, we approach you through Breathless ascent and descent along the Switchback of cliffs. We sit and gather Pure white stones from your beach. Beachy Head The wind ruffles the chalky grass, Trying to knock us down. I find a stone, go to the edge, Frightened, draw back my arm, Use all my strength and throw, Lie flat and follow it down but I can’t see it hit the water. Instead, I rest my eyes on the rusting Sea-shattered wreck. “Get back” my mother screams. She hates all five of us milling around, Chasing each other on top of the cliff. My father smiles, he loves the scene, Loves to scare her. He always did. Dordogne |
Poetry for adults >