Poetry

Arriving

We take our first walk

in the late autumn

of the Lammermuir Hills,

our original borderland,

into which we wrap,

arms around each other,

body to body

fitting step to step,

breathing clouds of mist

into the low haze of setting sun.

Red cheeked and flushed

with love we land

into Castle Hotel’s

warm embrace -

red plush sofas,

crackling fire

flickering polished oak -

you ordering afternoon tea 

for two, scones

sandwiches and cake.

Astonished, I watch you

load your scone -

an inch of cream

topped by an inch of jam -

following suit, I bite softly down into

creamy pillows of loveliness,

little knowing I had arrived

and that we would live out forty years

walking in beauty, eating cake, 

making worlds.

Advanced Care Directive: Assisting Living

I’m hoping we die old

in one another’s arms

amongst the debris and detritus

of our crumbling Byzantium,

touching and touched

by those we love,

a final intake of peace,

sailing tenderly

into dark, separated

only at the last.

However, if I linger beyond the pale,

no longer wanted by my life,

suffering too much -

mad atop like Dean Swift’s Elms -

please be sure every cause

is checked and tried -

loneliness, grief, pain,

loss of love or faith,

or just a UTI.

Even then don’t write me off,

give care a chance,

calm gnawing memories,

and tired regrets with sweet airs,

wheel me through trees and light,

pausing to catch the sight,

smell, sound

of wind, water, earth,

a bird in flight.

Most of all find ways to sense

if this carefulness is too much for you

but not enough to hold on to me

and keep us here, if so

let me creep under the red rock and look

into the heart of silence,

let me go knowing

you did all you could

to end my life

in kindness.

I could be that person

I could be that person in the airport

cleaning the loos, singing during last minute pees,

ahead of longed-for holidays,

flying you somewhere calm and kind.

I could be that person.

I could be that person in the coffee shop

making americanos and flat whites,

along with smiles and cake,

serving you small morsels of deliciousness.

I could be that person.

I could be that person in the home

giving time, a sweet caress,

warm moments of water or wine,

soothing you with stories and sleep.

I could be that person.

I could be that person who just gives a look,

a tiny bit of a look that rekindles

care, love, memories, words

transforming your walking, thinking and breath.

I could be that person.

Mist at Christmas

After crackling colour

in a windless pall

of thick wet

wrapping,

you leave.

Spirits dimming

we look through

black filigree

lacing winter’s

grey scale.

As if confined

in a glass darkly

we long for sun’s

quickening

burn.

Steel sky 

gashed flame 

slowly sucks 

mist and haze 

to itself.

Glistening,

deep green

and copper

rise slowly 

from the gloom.

Still dank 

but less sad

our year ends

in glimmering 

light.

Winter Night

All day cold chills me, 

numbing hands and thought;

walking into glitter,

diamond studded dark above,

crystal crispness underfoot,

moon sliver lolling alongside exquisite Venus

enticing eyes toward

her poignant glow.

Pausing

Each day

I pause

in the woods

looking up

looking down

looking through

looking in detail,

just looking

sometimes

I see.

Each day

pausing

I see scapes

see haze

see clarity

simmering colour

shafting lights,

seeing

sometimes 

I feel.

Each day

pausing

I feel space,

feel shapes,

the world’s architecture

and opulence

moving me,

just feeling

sometimes

I pause. 

 The Seasons at Highwood

Living in the air above

a falling landscape,

we lie in bed drinking tea

thinking of things we’ve heard or seen

talking about how we slept, and dreamed,

of Summer’s brief flight.

Looking through the geometry

of windows full of clouds,

pink, slate, palest grey painting the blue,

watching it all scudding far and wide

we say how lovely it is to be illuminated

by Autumn’s beautiful light.

Seeing billows of mist hover among

infinite greens below and beyond,

touched by orange and brown,

trees already silhouette against the sky,

we wonder if we are ready to be folded

into Winter’s darkening night.

Remembering the day ahead,

asking if there’s energy for a last mow

to give room for crocus to grow,

for lifting dahlias into sheltered pots,

we dress warmly and plunge into 

the promise of Spring’s delight. 

Lingering in Fishpool Valley

We walk this way most days

lingering to hear

the water’s sweet music

as it ripples and bubbles

over tiny steps in a gentle cascade.

If only there was a bench,

we say, however man-made,

we could sit upon this grassy bridge

in between liquid sounds

travelling into shade.

Moving on we encounter sky 

and towering trees 

reflected in sheets of glass, 

deep dark pools flecked with leaves

falling stepwise down.

 Calm and quiet and cool,

from dying rushes brushing the edge 

grey-green, moorhen and duck slide 

into the light, looking to where we pause,

a moment serene.

Beach Comb

Walking hand in hand

along the beach

we admire the grey-green silver surf,

laugh at the October sun hiding in clouds,

not Scorchio, but sweet none the less.

Warm salty air tanging our breath,

I reach down and lift 

a small red stone to you, 

its heart shape

worn by million upon million

waves of time.

Sand martins swooping overhead,

we feel the chill in the soft breeze,

smiling, we take back 

each other’s hand,

living our life,

composing places to dwell.

Garden in the Storm

Moving here one wet spring,

the house sad, strange, unheimlich,

we rose that first morning 

to a cacophony of bleating lambs,

birds in full song,

and came out to you,

a gathering of infinite beings,

migrants and mixtures, 

both tender and tough,

some weak, some too strong,

all radiance hidden

under a canopy of neglect.

Tonight after 

twenty years of

nurturing each other

you are torn by a wanton

 storm, violent winds 

weaponize trees

smashing the flesh of you,

seeking out your mysteries.

Ruptured by anguish,

we feel the threat, 

wood in the wind,

cracking our thoughts,

collapsing limbs

crushing stone, 

our solace and joy

seems forever rendered.

Then another day

arrives, and another,

wind retreats 

in a change of direction,

people come, children run 

over the green,

down to the water,

friendship and laughter 

settle our minds.

Panic subsides

along with gathering doubts,

and occasional gusts 

of anguish; 

clearing  and repairing,

we sigh, and remember,

 we have done this before, 

given you 

time to turn.

And we go on, as do you,

subject to the madness 

that turns 

water and sun, wind and rain

rivers, mountains,

trees and insects,

into enemies

of each other, of us, of you, 

our abundant love, 

our garden in a storm.

Ghost Trees at Croft

Chopped atop

Almost split asunder

Bulbous and deformed

You twist Kracken-like 

In ghostly majesty.

Inked by a killing disease,

Sculpted by centuries of weather,

Your spectral limbs seem to 

Splinter the heavens 

Perpetual winter.

No emerald canopy

To shield your mutilated trunks,

Dead roots your quiet anchor,

Yet you stand grand

Above our shimmering borderland.

Girl's Night With Taylor Swift

In tee shirts and knickers, skin worked smooth 

as chicken breasts, they sit inside an altar

of makeup and mirrors, brushes dusted bronze, 

tissues strewn blue with tears.

Outfits hang from the hotel wardrobe,

witnesses to months of thought and talk,

sipping champagne, they gasp and giggle, stoking

a heady mix of friendship and anticipation.

While Taylor sings plaintive and determined,

they help each other with their special faces,  

faces shining like beautiful moons, concealing 

cares and anxieties under layer upon layer. 

Crooning to every song, every word

known and loved, they sing their hearts out,

testing waterproof mascara against the sobs

of adoration and release to come.

Zipped into sequins and fringes, lips plumped ruby, 

cowboy hats shoved on shimmering heads, 

they stuff their handbags with White Claw, grab their phones 

and step glittering into the sky of their American Dream.

Spring's Ointment 

Sun streams 

through trees

breaking 

green, stirring

seeds in small 

pots of damp 

loam. I too 

lie soaking in 

your sweetness, 

face upturned,

pain soothed

as you touch

and anoint, 

thirsty flesh 

laid bare 

after winter’s 

cruel hibernation,

each fibre and

stone bone of me, 

warmed 

by spring’s 

ointment, 

touching

the deep dark 

core of me;

eyes closed, 

stretching 

I bask, 

and unfurl 

into summer.

He has such a big heart

I’ve listened to his heart

on and off for nearly

40 years, my head lying on

the rise and fall of its protective cage,

hearing beat after beat,

splendid and dependable.

His heart is so big

it has always had room

to fit us all in

its loving wisdom, no matter

if our antics

make it sink at times.

His big heart has had

years of beating cares away,

of sending the trivial and angry

packing so ideas can breath,

of circulating nourishment

to grow young minds.

But lately his big heart

Has laboured under an onslaught

of troubles, ageing and infections

clogging lungs, making breathing

and beating hard, yet, darling,

please beat on for us

Repose

You open the door, just a crack,

a rosy glow comes first,

you open it wider,

the room radiates repose.

Then you enter

colour and pattern

subdued by shadows,

offering a broad expanse of calm,

a thin line of peace,

to ease 

life’s restlessness.

Trees in this mast year 

so many months, 

cold, wet,

waiting, longing,

but when you came 

you went on so long

and stayed so dry

you dragged out of us

all that we are,

our lifegiving juice;

our fungal companions, 

shrivelled further underground, 

parched into the earth

even the weather got tired,

hot winds leaving thirsty,

huge clouds gathering

foretelling coming rain, 

only to disappear,

blown along too fast 

we wish we could move

around like the dog,

stretching its fur coat 

out along cooling stone,

snoozing in a quiet 

corner of our shade

resisting the drift into weariness, 

we work hard to stay alive, 

to be sure to reproduce – 

time will tell who among us 

stays fit enough to survive,

there are promises we must keep 

even if it should never rain,

if that exquisite blueness 

should endlessly forestall

the water we cannot reach – 

then it comes

one evening, near sunset,

birds call, dogs bark, 

the blue dissipates

into the fluff of beyond

and skeletal fingers, 

white, grey, black

reach across the iridescent sky,

gold floating 

in a cool westerly breeze

caressing the fire,

stirring hope of a helping hand, 

tipping us into a verdant future

Poem on the occasion of the Epstein Files Debacle

Bye-bye, Miss American pie,

taken to the party

for rich guys to buy,

those bad old boys

drinking whiskey and rye,

laughing the day

that you cried,

laughing the day

that you died

Wanting more than life can give

Thinking about

giving young ones, old ones,

other ones, a lift

into the blue,

into the landscape,

into the beyond,

into imagining

somewhere, elsewhere,

somewhere different,

colourful even,

could be possible.

Is this the right

thing to do?

Or does it just

give someone,

anyone, the sense

of a life, the longing

for a life, for more

than their life

can give?