Poetry

  HALLOWED GROUND

This is a sacred place, step carefully. 

The green half-light, like stained glass in a church, 

Illuminates the ground on which we tread. 

Huge trees support the overhanging sky, 

Their massive branches buttressing up the clouds.

 

These are what remain of the old growth forests,

Where men are dwarfed by size, and age, and space.

 

Long before the first road cut its deep path,

Before Columbus landed on that other shore,

These mighty plants were reaching to the sun,

Absorbing rain and hallowing the land.

 

Now in the solemn silence of this place

We are reminded of the things we've lost, and are still losing.

Like those who turn the light on in the dark,

We blink, unable to focus clearly.

Yet a sense of awe and mystic power prevails,

And reveals our true selves and what we fear:

 

Our pitiful longevity,

Our destructive nature,

Our lack of roots.

CLEAR CUT IN THE WALBRAN

Like shaved heads

The treeless mountains

Display their raw scars.

Below in secret valleys

The last of the old growth

Huddles in cool, dark splendor.

Sitka, Douglas, Hemlock and Cedar;

The names echo like the roll call

Of old scholars in a hall of fame.

Six hundred years destroyed in minutes.

Huge trunks, towering,

Crashing,

Lie still.

We knew them once;

Timeless forests,

Rooting the horizon.

Sacred Cedars and guardian Firs.

Now gone,

Perhaps for ever.

Forests have become trees,

So few now,

And time is no longer a friend.

AUTUMN EVE

Come with me now this Autumn eve,
To the dark corner in the long garden
Where the ageing surplus of summer,
Rich in gold and crimson,
Lies piled in decaying splendour.

Watch carefully as the hand approaches.
The match is lit, a flame flares
And feeds in violent ecstasy
On the warm dry beauty of the past season.

And we, spectators at the cremation,
Rejoice as the flickering fingers
Recreate the secret fantasies of earliest man.

Outside the circle the shadows deepen,                   Black shapes stand silent.

In front, excitement crackles                                     And happiness is a passing aroma;                            Heat on the cheek and a bright eye.

Don’t look round!                                                    Enjoy this fiery moment of light and warmth,                For Darkness awaits around the red embers,              And reality and time                                               Draw us to our own pyre.

TONIGHT

Tonight in the sight of the moon’s light
While lovers explore the sensual dance
And the owls search for prey
I shall anoint the bark of trees
And wander free among the shadows
Caressing the fallen leaves
Savouring the bitter sweet taste of life
Scenting its fragrant agony

It is the ebb tide my love
And we must be brave
It has inevitability on its side

I sing the song 
In a breathless whisper
Grasp the nettle and taste the blood
While all creation exalts

Silence returns with its soft syllable
To meld the moment
Mock the fear
Resurrect the hope

WHERE THE WAVES TOUCH

At the water’s edge, where the waves touch the skin,
Mysteries abound, confronting common sense.
Shells, held to ears, speak loudly of the sea,
But only if one listens quietly.

At the high tide line
Driftwood hints at lost forests.
Logs lay prostrate on the beach,
Like refugees who have given up hope.

Gulls ignore me as they contemplate the tide,
Their ancient eyes yearn for slippery things.
Human concerns are recent,
And are confused by morality.

A seal rises silently, disturbing the limpid waters,
Its marbled eyes survey me.
What does it see? A hunter, a curious adventurer,
Or, perhaps, a lost soul?

Overhead, an osprey feathers the air
And in seconds plunges, hooks and captures
Its obedient prey. And the tide changes,
And the pattern rearranges itself.

RECOLLECTIONS ON A CANVAS

I must embrace
Those fragile images
Of my earlier life,
And in the instant
Pluck from that misty realm
The bright icons
Of the shaping past.

Come with me now
Through this ancient door
Of an older belief.
There is a cool space
Within these crumbling stones;
High arches frame the moment,
But support merely an empty roof –
The symbols of power have changed.

Echoes lurk like bubbles
And burst with sudden sound,
Each recalling an intricate fragment
Of a picture I need to recreate.

The swirling clouds part, momentarily,
And reveal the house - a home –
My childhood setting, at the village edge.
All paths lead to this place
And from it - meander gently
Amid fields of grass and corn
Around old buildings in quiet dawns.

Steps ladder upward
To an unseen future
From a well of memories
That caress like morning sun light,
And kaleidoscope the years
In patterns of shapes and colours
Too many for me to grasp.

There are no people here,
But their imprint remains
Like a warm glove
Which I may wear
If I choose.

The hourglass has turned,
And the pattering sand
Whispers encouragement:
No regrets, no going back.
On the distant hills
The light increases.