Before the 20th century

It was baking and the crops

Banked fires against the cold

And wearing shoes as necklaces

To cross the fields to school.

My granny told me stories

Of babies in the cot

And the breaking of the sod

Clucking chickens in the yard

And why the moon landing

Was nothing but a fraud.

The ‘Flashing Blade’ on TV

And the way the puppets fought

Made the news appear quite odd

But the ‘Polis’ and the baddies

Were the standard stories told.

The years swapped the fabled

For the imagined and the real

But where my granny trod

The ghosties and the earwigs

Still fled in fear and dread.

We don’t hunt for glory,

But nature or nurture

Makes us sharper than knives.

So we carve our own future

And sometimes get ribbons;

Sometimes dirty looks.

We take stock of what’s said;

The praise or the blame;

The cautious advice

That says don’t throw the game;

The backward glances

Of those who remain;

The curses and jeers;

The praise and the tears;

And cries of jubilation.

We are not spooked

Into believing we’re made

To live others’ ordinary lives.

Our motive’s our own

And we write our own story

In life’s changing book

Unapologetic, unexplained

Hoping to mark the sentence

With an exclamation, or at least

Have it read to the end.

A chocolate rose

When winter’s

not done

And friends

must stay apart.

This year

There seems

little room

For romance

Or floral art.

You know;

Inspiration

Can be

Unwelcome

For Valentines.

These flowers

Will not open

To the sun

Or prick you

With their spines.

But allusion

turns to truism

Loss of appetite,

And delusion

Keeps lovers apart

Poetry’s not

always convenient

When it comes

To affairs

Of the heart

I am birthed,

Conscious of

my magnificence

And hence

Immune

To coddling;

Shrieking my resistance;

Weaned from the need

For your approval

Indignant

In my refusal

To accept less.

And so it continues

Through graduation

New situations

Tackled at my

Invincible best.

Until hark!

It concludes

And the ringing

in my ears

Is understood

As the alarm

Of failing systems.

I don’t want to seem rude

Ungrateful

Or even too concerned.

Surely the design

Could be better?

But in real life it seems

There are no returns.

Jupiter and Saturn

In conjunction

The Christmas star

falls in the west.

The Solstice shrinks

From crossing the bar

Of a demonic year.

Two points in the sky

Become a brighter whole

We look for a presage

In the dark.

Hark the herald

Hear the message

Shed a tear.

Daughters and sons

told to stay away.

The news is bleak

We don’t expect

The buses to run

Church bells to speak

Or Santa to appear.

But the festive lights glitter

The home fire is set

And the candles are lit.

Though partygoers are fewer

And the streets empty

Our inner voices permit

Celebration here.

The soil lives

My brother and I

Picked potatoes;

Fought for the furrow

Where the field rises

And water clings

To the clay.

I found a field mouse

And lost it;

While the quiet lady

Closer to the ground

Than all of us

Stooped to gather,

Shaking mud

From the clumps

Filling baskets

With woven hoops

And showing the way.

That late September

Chris gathered more

Among the neat rows

Birthing big blues

Pinks, or canners;

I can’t remember.

But the sad

And the no hopers

Thought to punish

The interlopers

Encroaching on

Their perquisites

So blood was spilled.

It’s what passes

for entertainment

In this rural idyll

The rain falls slowly

And the soil still lives.

For all the dogs

Who loved my toes

With their pink tongues

And knowing nose (ses)

I long to return

To youthful poses

When the perfume

Of saliva was

scented like roses

I went to the well

To hear the echo sound

Nothing came;

Bereft I tried again

And from the depths

A groan was heard

Low and staccato

Like speech was hard

All the way from hell

Even though, before

When times were kinder

The voice that came

Was musical as bells.

I frowned and yelled

Perhaps too rudely

But this time around

No news came back

From underground;

At least nothing good.

My echo framed the question:

Who is it then, who dares

To ask but does not listen?

When the earth writhes in pain

As foul weather

And disease appear again.

Is it because you think

It’s gold the sound

Of your opinion,

Gold enough to hear again?

But that which glistens

Is all reflection;

This much is clear:

If you have brought no wisdom

You will never find it here.

I saw four raptors circling

Masters of the sky

Adults and their young?

I’m no ornithologist

But the beat was strong;

Intertwining circles

Like a family’s arms.

And the white splashes

On the underwing of one

Might it be a daughter

Reaching for the sun?

In the woodland cowering

Rabbits hope not

To catch their eye

As feathered brushes

Paint upon the noon sky

Each one’s struggle to persist.

In my mind I see

White splashes in the sun

The roar of engines turning;

Spitfires or Hurricanes

In the battle to exist.

Picture young lovers

Sitting on a pavement seat

Masked and booted

Joining heartbeats

Sure they are suited;

Teenage angst battling

Against official attempts

To keep them apart.

This is a moment

They don’t want to miss;

Someone loves them

And time’s slipping away.

So every few seconds

They feel more immune

The masks lift

And time and risk stop

For a meeting of lips.