Forest Bathing

Look up! Look up! and see the dull glimmer of stars

as light travels steadily for millions of our earth years,

to be swallowed up by the mirky polluted earth skies,

finally the mystery of their lives is visible to our eyes.

——–

Take time! Watch the golden, moon lit stratosphere,

or the pounding waves covered as if by molten gold,

or the golden leaves greyed as evening comes now

fairy flying leaves as the wind lashed branches flow.

Truss the Tory way.

The butterfly spread its wings,

as the sun rose late,

the scent of honeysuckle fills the air

on Michaelmas tide,

alighting to drink the sweet nectar it floats in my sight,

chilling my heart as the Autumn’s reign’s diminished.

——

Swallows and sparrows soar and chat as their

nestlings feed on the whining insects,

while others die of thirst and homelessness.

——

Small fruits hang on leafless trees ready for harvest,

miniature wheat and barley – barely usable,

and so the humble loaf, priced high will shrink

from the tables of the destitute and hardworking.

—–

Across the burned hills, brown spreads like an ink blot,

til the green and pleasant land is gone.

Rivers barely move on their sluggish journey

to the plastic polluted seas and fish lay dead

on the bare, crumbling banks.

——

The crisis grows, our greedy government knows,

but still it sows its fracking carbon woes,

madness, insanity prevails, eager to stow honour and

creating rows of zeroes for the richly clad,

and for the poor, voiceless and wise shows

contempt even as they suffer and die.

Waiting in the Night

Twas evening, when the fishermen sail,

the sun shifting to shine on other seas,

Faintly glowing the far off stars

herald the approaching night.

——

the light slowly recedes from the shore,

as somewhere a wise owl calls from 

a wooded glade, where rested roosting 

birds ready to wake the dawn.

——–

The silken skin of the placid sea

moves in time to a hidden melody

while slowly a sliver of gold rises

silvering the darkling sky.

———–

Nearby human quieten, homes darken

and the moon bright sea shimmers.

and within the ripples dancing is

blue phosphorus blooming.

——–

A sole person communes from the shore,

lost in Neptune’s glorious palette,

he meditates on the swell’s rise

and fall, the salt in his tears.

——–

and the sea watching the lone figure,

hears his eternal heart’s brokenness, 

and in its wisdom contemplates the

mystery of human mortality.

The Early Purple Orchid

A robin puffed its red breast

and sang for the joy of the day, while

down below a glorious sight.

—-

It stood tall, admiring the view,

sparkling waters and sun caressed

bluebells.

—-

Its flowers opening to the ever-present bees,

and deep in the earth the bulb, which died

to give it birth is renewed.

Slender stemmed it sways in the breeze,

cheered by the sight of the many more

cerise orchid blooms.

—–

Pyramids of  beauteous petals,

shine amidst fading violets and growing grass,

watched over by a song in the golden gorse.

The Hearth of the multitude.

The memorial bench, a seat in the mystery of time,

where I can sit, and my heart swell with the beauty

of the place where he sat and contemplated the view.

—————–

The mist far out to sea cooled the sultry spring air,

Silent, eyes closed, no wind and somewhere not far

a bud opened, a tiny deflection of air like a butterfly

——-

which has flown past in a soft, floating, rocking flight,

and there, I listened for an insect crawling between the

grasses and bluebells and wondered why it ever was

——–

thus that humans were blind to the beauty of the tiny,

ephemeral life and deaf to the opening of a rambling

rose, their sense of smell missing the coconutty gorse.

—-

Time will hurry on and this seat will rest many a one,

who will miss, like I have, many tiny signs that we’re

not alone, and we share our lives with a myriad things.

——-

Pulsing hearts and gleaming anthers, populated homes

and glorious, awe inspiring flight of birds and bees

and if we knew would we take consider their cares too?

The Trumpet Call of Spring.

( or Hope Denied)

The saffron centred crocus shone against the dark earth,

petals gently unfolding inviting the invasion of light

and insects tending their pollen, enabling production

of tapestry in grass; and secretly new bulbs grow ready

to bring joy and luminescence to the troubled world.

———-

Floating on the breeze bees hover, seeking the sweet

peppery smell of defiant daffodils, with urgent spears 

they break open frozen soil and as buds burst, golden

flowers wave in the wind, bending, heralding the good 

news of heads heavy with the promise of fruitfulness.

—–

The weeping willow hangs its head, as if shamed, down

on the scattering of purple, white, yellow  and orange 

that look on the swaying slender branches with awe til

the tiny buds of fresh green begin the task of creation,

in a quickening garden, a sweet shadowed lovers bower. 

——

So soft, so gentle are the woodlands growing and where

green buds burst below carpets of blue and white, as the

campanula carpet battles for ground with the humble garlic,

and mother’s violets cover the banks, peeping at the sun

which is slowly dappled and darkened under the canopy.

——-

Small birds flit and fuss as they collect damp green moss,

and the woodpeckers knock out their staccato rhythm,

or cackle with laughter as they fly through the branches

that wave and greet the coming Spring, jubilantly they

clutch the new nests and cheer on the coupling hawks.

——–

Suddenly life looks good and growing would be better, 

and fulsomely lovely were it not for the bitter twist, of

wars and weather which wrest from the world the many

majestic splendours of its blossoming and blooming,

killing indiscriminately the proliferating gloriousness.

————-

So, rest in bower, beloved, and feel the swift rising of

the sap in the gloom of a grey winter’s dying throes,

feel the gratitude of the butterfly winged flight, holding

the heat of Spring’s happiness in your heart against-

the cold of the hungry engine of division and hatred.



M

Mercilessly the virus pursues us and prunes life on earth,

Masks are worn and relationships torn and born on the net.

Massive queues by the hospital to see the overworked staff.

Moment by moment worsening ’til Covid conversations are

Mixed with Christmas Greetings and curtains closely drawn.

——

Many people are working to avoid the pyres, wreaths and woes.

Multiple hands crafting vaccinations against poisonous progress.

Measuring and creating the chemists turn to war on an invisible

Mutinous enemy who coldly challenges their clever craft, then

Mutates into something new, something vile, a calculating killer.

——-

Maintaining their arsenal governments buy their weaponry, 

Munching machines greedily tear down healthy trees and plants, 

Marksmen shooting innocent angry orangutans trying to flee.

Miserly we carve up our life, green space and wonder why it

Mercilessly bites us back!

——-

Must we fight nature instead of nurturing the glorious wonder?

Masterminds of the world unite to secure a future for the whole.

Moved we should change today not tomorrow bearing the sorrow.

Mother Nature calls us to be as one with the beauty of our world.

Mother Mary birthed Jesus who spoke then of saving all creation.

——-

Magi and shepherds hailed his coming and angels split the skies,

Moaning lips accused him. Shattering the hope of unity and progress.

Most times we occlude the truth that Christmas is the celebration of

Making us one with the creator who made each leaf and flower,

Multiplying shape and hue and scape. And true in steadfast love.

My Winter in Summer

I heard the crunch of tyres on the stony ground still,

as it stopped on the grassy verge and outpoured

chattering children and gathering grownups. Nearby 

the yapping of a small dog, running freely amongst 

the cars disturbing someones quiet moments, and

threatening to knock over the frail taking a walk

in the afternoon sunshine – after a long year sitting.

I felt the sting of tears as I stood alone, cherishing

the sights and sounds despite my sorrowing soul.

====

I look over the cliffs and see the the lumbering

shapes of cows stopping to munch at the green

grass, kept fresh by the rainy days, they chew 

slowly dripping saliva as they relish the juiciness,

and then they slowly subside onto a fresh patch

and resolutely chew their sweet cud while small

patterned calves run between them on their too

long wobbly legs, eating the grass and drinking

the much needed sustenance from the udders.

=====

I saw overhead and heard the call of Choughs

as they jounce through the air showing off their

joy at the world. A greenfinch zee zees in the

blackthorn and a charm of goldfinches swarm

around the dandelion clocks chirping. High

on a tree a blackbird calls and then a thrush 

puffs out his breast and sings a song to warn

of coming storms and yet the joy in his heart

tumbles from his beak into a my bleak living.

====

I walk on and hear a child cry with delight at the

sight of the choices of ices and eyes wide they

look at labels of chocolate, honey, blueberry til

a decision with precision, a waiting smile, hands, 

ready to receive the precious taste of holidays 

and special events that have long since been 

a rarity in their vicinity and well merited now,

melting into small mouths and reviving them

with sugars and colours and tastes and smells.

====

Everywhere there are daisies and buttercups

brightening the brown earth where nature 

produces orchids early and harebells late,

bluebells to mirror a sky of blue on earth,

garlic to fill the air with a pungent delight

and blackberries flowering, preparing the

fruit of jams, jellies, crumbles and pies.

All through them the gorse spikes shine 

gold, spreading their honey scent wide.

==

I walk on with winter in my wretched heart, and 

return towards my home poignantly pondering,

wondering, and wanting to applaud the joy

and hope in all those happy sticky faces, 

and gritty shoes and wished again that my

little ones were here amongst them – and not

locked away by a vile virus that blocks them. 

mocks my aching empty arms and I look at

at the summer through a veil of trickling tears.

The Bee Loud Glade of death

The yellow striped torso caught the sun,

revealing the trembling tiny hairs

and fragile filigree wings working

with God to nurture nature and so

—-

the bee flew over the fence to

the fragile flowers opening to the sun, 

and heard the happy buzzing of harvest;

as he sipped sweetness of stamens and 

—-

packed pollen baskets ensuring survival;

and banded bodies caked with yellow dust

feasted on people poisoned plants, and

—-

Struggling back to a busy, booming base

grew the honeycomb for the winter’s food.

The six-sided cells filled with sweetness,

Bursting with new life, delighting  

the dancing queen. Til,

—–

everyone of them sickened and died.