Late Summer

This morning I used the stepping stones of freshly poured gold
To walk between the trees.

I breathed the night-cleansed air that I have too long taken for granted,
Filled my lungs until they burst.

I felt the warmth of the climbing sun on my face and fondly
Remembered loved-ones long gone.

I tasted the forest on my palate, like good wine, and thought
Of friends I could invite to dinner.

I saw autumn in the parched undergrowth and wilting leaves
And suddenly grew impatient for its technicolour thrill.

This morning I drank the world in and it stayed with me
And that is all I can ask.

August 2023

A Short Poem About Spring

Evening Walk

A chattering bush,
Betrays unruly sparrows,
Waiting for the seeds to fall,
From the groundsman's barrow.

A cloud dog chases 
A rabbit across the evening sky.
And the setting sun holds 
Stratus between its teeth.

We walk easily in the warmth,
Now winter has retreated,
Beneath the soil.
Spring leap.

April 2023

On Bidborough Ridge

Another poem inspired by my local area with references to Bidborough, Southborough, the Downs and A21!

On Bidborough Ridge

My heart lies in the hammock of this green valley
It’s gentle sides I pull about me on my return,
Grateful for its soft embrace and the chance at last,
To rest, far from the world I once devoured,
Before it turned on me and then took chase.

The field where I fumbled through my teenage years
In golden nests amongst the hay -I heard not long ago,
she had passed away –
The white bell-tower of my old school
From whose negligence I made a full recovery.

But today, when I climbed to the high ridge
And looked below, at the remnants of that
Which I used to know, beneath this sky
That silk screens the clouds, I saw
Nothing beyond the road that slips
Beyond the dusty evening Downs.

An unknown future beckons and I am reluctant,
To follow, an old dog dragging behind its master,
Beneath St Peter’s clock which has been three minutes late,
Ever since they bound and gagged,
Our churches with black tape
And the birds became our evensong
In a clear cathedral sky.

This land
My comfortI shall gladly take
But I am no fool, this is my end
There are no pastures new.

July 2021

Holden Pond

The blacksmith’s hammer
And the tanner’s mallet
Fell silent here a long time ago.

Their calloused pounding hands
And leather beating hearts
Now lying six feet under.

Earthen scars of forgotten
Trades, slowly fade in the shade
Cast by carefree trees.

And, but for the ducks
With their flotillas of young,
These waters would be still.

The perfect place
For my troubled mind
To rest and forge these lines.

SD 10/4/21