After the creation of an ideal place, Thing, person or even a time All that is left Is the strength to hold it And the need to do so. The need is always present. Sometimes the voices Become so strong That their resonance can deafen The waiting mind. They can provide a key To unlock your mind Or a lock to bind The necessary doors Of unnecessary perception shut. Experience has taught me That the choice, Time, reason Or place In a life Are not always yours. D.R.
I have worshipped at a forest shrine With pagan effigies of morning vapour Close on either side. Held winter roses, sharp with thorns When symphonies had played and died. On longer nights wherein I wandered Through tranquil days of silken fire A growing hollowness I observed - and yet We gathered wild strawberries here Giving back some seeds That our land deserved. I have forgiven the dissonant supple voices That absorbed my thoughts And masked their worth For the vines are bare and my footsteps pound On the drumhead of our empty earth. D.R
This morning smiled With frost around her lips Yet evoked no more sadness Than the September rain Harvested were the clouds In the standing grain When in answer to a breeze the first leaf slipped. For fields were changing, green to gold With here and there a sycamore Briefly blazing And sometimes I thought I heard A single cry from a native bird All in the east The winds on snow were grazing. The beautiful annual tragedy of autumn Sang again its ancient refrain That ran and danced in the expectant wood And picked from a selection A melancholy mood From a sea-lashed wilderness My season has come. Can we who watch from the heights of knowing Expect too much of the leaves to cling To retain all the early summer days A hope may rise But never stays Now sweet sadness, clothed in moonlight Is a living thing. D.R
Fragments of parchment curled to rustle Crabwise before the wind Scuttle across the tarmac Forming drifts of crisping time Trusted paths and lost foundations Buried in the leaves Blazing autumn Chilled by frosted wine. Floods of summer madly rolling Coursing with decay Bank along an endless track To bed and dream of future gains While I beneath a brittle sky Of Victorian-vaulted air Uncurl a leaf And read prophetic stains. A message punctuated harshly In the slowly winding day Written in the black and gold It speaks of other years. When high and wild returning migrants Laugh above the land I regard their song And taste remembered tears. D.R.
ROCKCLIFFE HALL, A RETROSPECT.
She sat there like a tired old lady As our afternoon wore on And I had to take her picture For soon all her tribe Would be gone. Still full of conversation In the tick and hiss of steam We spoke of miles and travel And claimed a place in a dream. So much a creature of power Whose lines belied her name A way of life was ending But was it in joy or pain. She shouted her strength At the coal trucks Just as in the days of before Then Peter put on lamp on the front And she didn't come back any more. D.R.
Wake up to me Gentle in the morning When the house is hushed And winter walks outside. Lie here at my side And make a pillow of my chest Without the touch of clothes And not one need to hide. For my lips can kiss December from your body As my arms will form The garments for your skin. Forget all fears of harm While you sleep so near I can protect you Is this how love begins?. Whisper to me Gentle in the darkness Before the hour of sleep When time is ours alone. Settle to me now In the newness of ourselves This is our purpose here And all that we have known. For my mouth can give a vintage To your summer wine And feel the taste mature As inhibitions fall Then we can slumber Gentle in the morning dusk With the gifts of love. If these exist at all. D.R.
Sunlight streaming through the leaves In to your eyes did shine As breath that quickened from your lips Sped softly in to mine. Your body white as new fell snow Gilt by the setting sun Remember how my touch adored Two beings close as one Where once we watched a solitary moon Hang bright with silver fire And silent in the springtime chill We warmed to our desire. How in those stolen sensual moments We found the cure for all my ills I remember may, a new-born year And you in the Denbigh hills. D.R.
Light fell and rang like laughter on the water As somewhere far away from home The source lay down and died Standing then on the salt-wet sands Within the wraiths of mist, elusive in the curlew song His spirit, lingering behind the ebbing tide. He walked then where dawn had yet to break On moonlight vapours His final footsteps were heard But the ragged hills of white water were stilled By the echoes of guilt And all the beauty in his words. Close to the rim of the outer last sadness One lonely plot exists And there - it is too late to weep For the sea has brought back her son to his land Look. The day has arrived. And Dylan sleeps. D.R.
Over banks and hills another day will rise Strident calls of sea birds greet the light Another night has passed, lamps no longer burn So gentle is the motion of this world in turn Where winds will whisper secrets out of sight. Above this turf the sun will warm the Dee Reflecting from each wave which forms the tide Low foothills brood in the Flintshire mist Over disused pits where no dawn has kissed Here in my dank earth in reverie I sulk and hide. For I as you once did walk those hills And cherished the light on the estuary Heard the lilt of music in a village voice I wanted to stay but had no choice When far away - something called to me. As I lie in rest another day will rise Light stoops like a hawk to slumber with a dove Summer burns. At times I long for its life Yet I am thankful for this peace in strife And remain. Near the town where I left my love. D.R.
A Meeting Of Elders.
We sit and watch them On certain safe occasions. They walk upright, worry And seem to rush From place to place For no real reason. They hurt each other In many ways Yet still regard us As lesser beings To brush aside or study. No private life at all. We gather here tonight To discuss them. Their scent Is one of sickness and slowly They are dying out. So, it is our duty as Badgers To form "The Human Protection Group".
MIGRANTS.
Singing in praise of distant fields They flexed their wings And claimed the air In concert on a Migrant day. Now all are gone Only the ghosts of their song Still tingle on the wind. Swans that they mocked remain Hail falls in the furrows And gulls are a blown veil Too frail to mask the absence. Discarded shadows gather in The wake of flight As winter ends. Remaining we share secrets with The cold grey fingers Of trees Who need no rings To show their love for the sky. They hold it like a blue chalice In their hands. D.R.
BEFORE FULL LIGHT.
Yes, I envy you now But later When your breath Plumes on the air I shall not The day is used then. Before full light One star Fell through the plough And joined frost That shone on Ancient earthworks. A fox coughed once On Wat's Dyke And I entered The holed canopy Of beech While you slept. Making little noise I walked on And eyes that knew me Watched. Understanding, accepting Another dark creature In a busy wood Who does not envy you now. D.R.
DECEMBER, 1983.
As I recall One corner of the field Was sheltered And the Furrows Still blinked In the last of the light. Everywhere else Was a whiteness. A blizzard Brushed by my windows Turning late afternoon In to any time at all. Snow swirled In an empty coal truck While a rook Was tossed about Like a bundle Of old black rags. The weather Brought its own serenity. A December Saturday When even the rails Were softened By a cold blanket. Again I recall The muffled thunder Of trains, A subtle beauty In that day With a timeless love. D.R.
AUGUST ENDING.
We shall not speak Of this again Or sit so close And measure distance. We spoke of time and song And closing doors Hearing engines roaring Long in to their space, As swifts looked frantic In the almost-night Chasing moths and willowherb Before the colours fail. Yes I think of you often As trains turn time To distance. D.R.
One In A Morning.
There are no words To its song Only the ripples Ring around And sing in silence. Mute its name Yet eloquent Its Glide Across this pool Towards me. In offering bread To this swan I strangely sense A common hunger Become less. Diminishing until The clearing mist Shows two reflections. One in white And one in a morning.
TRINITY.
Only say the word Through the light Off the river When the only night Lives in my mind And as the colours rise I shall listen. Your words are music Peace in the dawn That spreads From your home to mine Across this village. Only say the word And I shall be healed.
( For Cintra Pemberton & The Order of St Helena. )
VOICES.
Close the windows now Lock their catch And paint out memories Of light and laughter. Let dusty sunshine Chase the ancestors Of leaves Across the floors, Let cobwebs form In empty doors Where song once danced From room to room. We lived here. Our breath joined In this house When life was a pastime. So, one day search In this echo For discarded words Dropped in haste, For some signs Of both of us To reconstruct And paint our picture. Our house remains. Its walls still stand But somehow We are gone. D.R.
SPEAKING TO RELATIVE STRANGERS.
The great mute swans are here To fly their ritual springtime circle From the Valley ponds And over the tides. Their upraised arms Bring the summer A little nearer. They know the secrets Of staying on to perpetuate life And are a constant theme Throughout my songs. They have given me So much to write about. Yet the time of leaving Still comes for the flocks of geese Who seem afraid That the colours will Become strong enough To shine And hold them. I somehow think That our ancestors Must have learned A long time ago The true value of rainbows. D.R.
CHANGING.
The sound of waves again Clouds assault the shore With soft explosions Yet leave no stain Upon our night. Nothing breaks This symmetry of sleep And any movement makes A different texture In the light. Then, the uplift of later. The day becomes whole When hillside windows Make a beacon For the sun. I leave and travel Between opening shadows Sharing with swallows Their long journey To a brief summer. D.R.
WITHIN A GLASS.
While breaking the wall We found a bottle And breaking its seal Scented musk An ancient sweetness. Perhaps this wine Has dried now Yet once a summer Left its light Within a glass. So much has changed Since that day Forests rise and fall And centuries are As nothing now. We too hid from the light And sealed our love Within a glass Secure until Someone broke the wall. D.R.
LESSONS.
All of these have taught me much that I needed to know So lately I have begun to look with their sight Thus enhancing my own. There are always lessons. Even before sleep I heard an owl call from a nearby wood Recalled and understood another distant song. Lapwings that look like dots of music As they dance along the westwind Across the bars of colour at the very edge of day. Children who listen silently when I explain How porridge and fat-bacon Were loaves and fishes in another age. All have taught me, Badgers that drift through early fields Are no secret to me now I know just why and where they go. It has not yet ended In every gift of a day I find some answers That each has taught me. D.R.
Essential Reflection.
He built his fire of leaves and memories and sat in a circle of light as the night evolved around him. hearing foosteps approaching or merely passing by. "Some pause And eyes are a feeling Unseen to all but me Receptive, waiting. No one speaks Only moths draw near To share a flame When light is a barrier." Still, others waited until the embers died. he rarely heard them leave as his dawn was evolving.
Closer Now. (for G.A.R.)
The film was monochrome Yet as we watched together You coloured it in. A startled face Beneath that red beret Tasted stench and dust On khaki, black and brass And the cold rage That ran among those men, You seem closer to them now. Those gates are shut And now I know Just where that road led you, A haunted, shattered land. Sometimes I glance Across the room To catch you dreaming Of a shared love And dark brown hair, You are closer to her now. D.R.
November, 1989 / 14th of March, 1999
HARLECH.
"Has someone turned The sound off?" No footsteps or voices In the corridors And the wind Across Tremadog Bay Had suddenly died. You pointed out herons Far below the window Drifting from right to left As in a known heaven Mountains reflected back Their spring snow And our sunset. In communal stillness We allowed ourselves To brighten senses Dulled by memory. Speaking softly Sharing ourselves, our wine And a single night.
Arriving.
Driving through Crimea pass We noticed ravens Sorting through the bones Of Ffestiniog slate And sad industry, Their purpose unknown In that sterile landscape. Sheep contested the road And wandered intent On their ancient journeys While ours continued Winding and falling Towards the coast Where the castle sought mist Yet stood in sunlight. The Mawddach estuary Was a glistening destiny Claiming colour from the sky To give back light and life And the joining laughter Of our arrival.
Leaving.
There were rumours of snow As we left our room Above the bay, Strangely empty With its memories Of taste and touch And sudden knowing. Certain that words Would let us down We walked in silence Passing notes and glances Of time and place For leaving is The oldest language. Car doors closed, Sound came back And the somnolent lies Of ringdoves Sang of day and distance. The castle found its mist And waited again.
Signalman.
Every day was different. In certain winter dawns A low and sharpened light Across a field and frost Would form straight shadows Where a dwelling had been Before the scouring plough Of callous strangers Dispersed its life. I could watch this place And somehow feel the life That lingered there In that harsh light When the steel In my hands Felt like cold skin. I was part of the dawn, Aware of all the lives In the multiple thunder Of trains and wind Which still call through Each early hour From that other life Where every day was different
Parys Mine Pool, Greenfield. (for Shirley Minton.)
What life lies In this green And placid place Where a flicked fin Makes a meal For the sentinel. The day was still And mist lay Like a gauze cloth In unironed ripples. Then patterns broke Into thrown jewels As a kingfisher Brought the sky so close On its whirling wings And shards of light. Peace spread again, I watched the sentinel Dip and spear Through mist and time From safety into flight And begin my day.
Thursday,17th of June,1999
Almost October.
Autumn has paused At the edge of winter With grazing bats And nights Of moth and spiders That cast their webs Across each narrowing day. Quick wings brush The moon Of a streetlamp, Memories call As the light grows less And reflection Fills each evening. Almost October. Familiar migrants Pass my windows. I draw the curtains On another day As, all unnoticed September ends. Derek Richardson September, 29th,1999
A time before day.
The far flung ice of stars In that time before day Gave light enough To paint each wave In white and silver As they lost their way In the darkness At my feet. I became aware Of a scything wind Burning with salt And a wildness of sea Its searching fingers Finding frost On sheltered stones Along the shore. With muted song Seabirds called the dawn And I stood still Amid the whisper Of tide and pebbles. In that time before day I thanked my life And savoured a truth.
Monday, October the 4th, 1999
You are leaving now.
You are leaving now. I sense you starting the car While my hands perform These simple rituals, Mundane tasks that Somehow bring you nearer. From the tarnished glow Of a southern dream You drive through rain, As I prepare our meal And whisper a blessing On your Journey. Reflectively, you sip coffee And glance at a page, Those familiar words Of a cherished lovesong That made you pack and leave For my northern autumn. I sense you again, closer Though you are counties away In the mist and distance While in a lecture room I try to concentrate, but know Your eyes, like mine, are tiring. Tonight, I shall see you And taste the distant memory Of a city on your breath. I mark and close my book Then walk in to the wind To where I sense you waiting.
1/11/99. Remembrance Day.
This was a moment of stillness With only the leaves moving In that Flanders city square Where we clasped hands As cannons crashed To mark the peace and silence. A rustle in the plane trees, The eternal life of fountains And rank upon rank of ages Marked those generations Lost beneath the fields Surrounding Lille and life. With our own thoughts We stood in an exultation Of brass and startled rooks Until the grim wind of memory Took us to the warmth of a café And the chill reality of now. No words were necessary, The past and future joined On that November day in France. Understanding futility and freedom We just drank and hoped, Hoped and prayed. Lille, Flandres. 11th Novembre,1999
17th of November, 1999
.
Simple Beginnings.
It waited so long In the desert, A pillar of rock Eroded in to beauty And given grace By unseen elements. No hands shaped Or carved this grace, Only the wines Of many seasons In a wasteland Far from man. From a distance A solitary traveller Watched a mirage Stir in the heat And seem to beckon To his searching mind. No one waited, Only the rock Stood in his shadow. Like a God in exile It accepted his worship And unspoken need.
Thursday, 25th of November,1999
Understanding April.
Charcoal traceries of Ravens Scratch a kind of song In coarsened ice Across the sky today. Droplets decorate branches Below the wind's reach, Berries against evergreen Cling to the wrong season. Colours climb and turn And catch the light To rise around the Maple, Twisting twigs into spring. On the flowering cherry One blossom interprets April In an older language And we fail to understand.
Wednesday the 5th of April, 2000. ( 'Poetry Power 2000' first prize winner.)
In a muffled sunset.
The estuary grows dark, Shapes form in the fog That spreads its fingers Across our path And outside our sight A swan circles with The beat of a distant heart. For no real reason We speak in hushed voices Afraid to awaken memories And admit to doubts From our hidden times That would only weaken This precious evening. In the muffled sunset I brush away the droplets Of mist from your hair As we blend in silent prayer To whatever spirits listen, While we taste on the fog That our winter is leaving.
Friday, 14th of April, 2000.
Observations.
Black buds on an ash, A full stop to its script With no applause except The fall of last year's leaf. Frost tills the ground In simple shadows Where ranks of beech Defend a man-made hill, A Mercian mound above Those great hypnotic eyes Of pools that once drove Wheels and captive life. Nettles and badgers invade This fastness, casual tourists Walk crumbling ramparts Where pilgrims edged along. Your guide makes observations, Wades through fact and legend And hopes that only sunshine Divides this valley now.
Friday the 14th of April, 2000.
Legacy.
Shadows of clouds Sailed across treetops, Wind-driven to the shore Where green wheat rippled In many reflections Of the moon And imagined voices Drifted through dreams. Each night holds them. Solitary travellers On roads like still rivers Where streetlights lengthen Into hours of darkness. I found a legacy In the grip of night's hand That sparkled as it became mine. If I leave only this for you To shine in the falseness Of years and time Then please remember And Follow.
Monday the 8th of May, 2000.
Brussels.
Leaving the Grasmarkt bar In an hour after midnight We heard the music And followed street signs Towards Le Grand' Place Where five students played. Strings and woodwind Sang the Swan of Tuonela As a tin rattled harshly With thrown coins. Glistening pave' beckoned, Dark and dimly reflective Outside the lamplight And music told us Still of a longing That matched our own. Subtle scents of food From closing restaurants, Strings and woodwinds Call us still to heal In that ancient haven Of whispering history.
Thursday, 11 May 2000.
It Must Be Time.
It isn't light yet But mam has just called To say that it's time. She belted me yesterday For using my sleeve, not a 'hankie'. I didn't cry though 'Cos I'm a man now, Earning money like my dad. There's no sun yet Only the sharp-edged shadows Of the moon on frosty cobbles And a few small stars. My cousin from town Found a coot's egg. He's got time to do that And he goes to school. Duw, it's cold! But I'll be warmer in the mill. Yesterday the foreman Opened all the windows To keep us awake And we all near froze. I cut my hand as well. It still isn't light But mam has just called again So it must be time.
On sunday evening. (Travellers)
As evening chose its books From shelves and stacks And scattered papers, Where once we listened To clear-recorded voices I returned to find The calling slightness Of recent breath. From my chair I watched That Sunday sunset spread Across the western sky To tint my windows With a rosy light That softens memories Of summer loves And spring mistakes. Swallows had left the sky To sharp falsetto shadows When you returned to fill This blankness of wanting With sight and serenity And with a single touch Closed every page That evening had open
Monday the 12th of June, 2000.
Cwm Llydan (from 'Landscapes')
Afternoon. Autumn again. Leaves dance in a windsong And flames tell stories In my range. Someone sits by my fire Dreaming my dreams Of childrens' voices In a closing season. People appear briefly Eyes soften As they smile and recall Their other times. My time rests, For its autumn again And soon the snow, Climb my stairs now. Cwm Llydan. Night. Night brings song. Curlews and geese Are sounds like sparks And wings surround me. Older eyes open, A smile beckons And candles glide In unseen hands. Circles of light Meet and form A long warmth As love begins. Care grows And peace of mind Fills my spaces now. I settle like leaves. Cwm Llydan. Morning. Morning now. A cleansing frost And salt-mist Softens shadows. Someone returns, Lighting my fire And chasing dust That rises with smoke. I wrap arms Of stone and age About his need. I draw him to me. We wait then To share our day With other lives. We live again. Cwm Llydan. Day. Winter again. Scoured branches And sharpened light Through my windows. Someone sits at my table Dreaming of song That somehow calls Towards him once more. There are words in the wind, Winds that are kinder here And I know that They speak to him too. My song rests. For its winter again And soon the spring. So wait now.
First published 1996. (This rewrite, 23rd of June, 2000.)
Savigny Le Beune.
Rain tapped fingers On the canopy of leaves Sending a green-gold rain Of pollen to gild and sanctify An ordinary day In this silent town. A cyclist greeted us While riding by in mist When the street dried In a returning sun. We found a table And were joined by a cat Who seemed content To share our time In the ambience Of its green kingdom. That was in summer, In a season of study and song Where all in life had reason And love. Unquestioned As the slanting light Of this formal autumn.
Monday the 4th of September, 2000.
After a harvest.
There is a tension now, Last loads of harvest Stacked in transit Rumble to rickyard and barn Leaving shaved fields To the gathering flocks. Nothing moves for a while Then a gusting wind Sends them whirling Only to settle again Until a calling moment And lifting hours of flight. Stubble is brittle as frost, Punctuating starlings Pierce the long shadows From a crystal sun. In the gathered silence I find no tension now.
Thursday the 7th of September, 2000.
An ordinary day.
On the afternoon of An ordinary day We sat and talked About the changing season I could see only colours But she knew more And showed me growth Amid decay and plucked Some leaves to let me see The bud beneath their stem That waited quietly for A coming spring As our day ends early In September. She then lit candles And pointed out veins Where life would flow In the rising flame Of understanding On the evening of An ordinary day.
Tuesday the 18th of September, 2001.
Nocturne.
Night's hand still held that hour In the loose grip of summer And a slight breeze Made the darkness liquid. I felt the earth tremble, Rockfalls in deserted pits With the silent dust As their only witness. I became aware of this While cats patrolled From shadow to shadow And sleep escaped me. Aircraft strobe-lights circled, An owl chimed Above the hypnotic eyes And mirrors of mill pools. Finally a falling star Signalled a greater silence In the pattern of that night, More significant than sleep.
Wednesday the 19th of September, 2001.
A Railwayman Still.
There are buildings which still Arrest the wandering eye That say The Mold line ran through here. A trackside cabin Where a farmer wintered his sheep When a signalman called To a companion owl, Almost halfway to work With the county asleep. Climbing the fence To search through fields For stones and markers And the raised way To indicate our hours Some stumps of signals Green with moss Were all I found From that older Better time. Finding nothing else Except my memory Of sudden steel When it flashed Through our hands I left For somehow I faintly heard That distant whistle And turned away. A Railwayman still.
September the 21st/28th, 2001.
Gathering Mushrooms. They were circled around The premature autumn Of a broken branch When I found them, A natural meal In the gathering time When all life competes. I brushed soil From my fingertips And placed mushrooms In hands that soon Will tingle with frost That falls like dust Before the dawn. In woods softened By a living mist The light grew stronger. Predatory herons stalked Through fern and shallows And in this singing time I gave thanks to my day.
Wednesday the 26th of September, 2001.
In Village Memories.
Drifting from wild lands They settle like ancestors Beneath the moor After riding an east wind To autumn meadows, Rushing streams And the sanctuary of winter. Like the skeins of geese We looked for blessings In this narrow valley Where gods of earth and air Combine to enclose An arm of the sea As wheels grew weary. All this became legend Around our hearths Under still thatch Yet in migrant times The roads still beckon And a travellers' village stirs With misunderstood dreams.
Tuesday the 2nd of October, 2001.
All In A Night.
Something was hurting Clean and deep inside my arm And I was walking Through vibrant beauty Made a lie by speech. A cool gas hissing Through my tortured lungs To a mind aching for sleep. Brief moments of questions Sutures and cleansing fluid And compliance with procedure Then the pain and dreams again Where I spoke an eternal truth Amid crumbling cloud towers Above remembered bays and Streets of foreign cities. At first I did not notice, Before dawn you were a shadow In a room full of others Your warm hands and dark eyes Stroking me towards waking And a constant softness of lips That would chastise and love Me back to health. I slept then.
Ysbty Glan Clwyd. Sunday the 7th of October, 2001.
Mam Would Love You.
You find the gentler path Walking close beside me Though my steps are strong And pull my greatcoat collar up Against imagined chills. Fussing like a mother With her child While mine looks down Across twenty-one years At our woodland journey Clasping your hand like mist To enhance the love That grows like hers As I become a child again And stumble against Your tender guidance. She walks with us today Unseen through her Village Where she still sleeps In a watchful silence That has never changed. Her care lives in you Yet I am older now And healing.
Monday the 15th of October, 2001.
Greenfield.
Tasting Sunshine. Precious is the touch Of our finger tips tonight That look so like One hand against a mirror As they meet across a table And reach for the same glass Of gathered peace. When our wine passes In a ripple of shared pulse I try to match your movement While something stirs And breaks the balance Of another time. Your understanding Calls up a strength That grows beneath frailty. Your eyes are a mirror As our fingers intertwine Around this one glass And we taste sunshine.
Sunday the 21st of October, 2001.
Greenfield.
All Of This Still Happens. All of this still happens When we are far apart. Clouds and sunsets shape Each evening in to grandeur And curlews flock to feed Out on the saltflats. I shall still wake briefly And wonder if you sleep In your narrower bed Then turn to grant you space Or comfort beneath my breath As hours reach for morning. We speak over breakfast Words made easier by distance, Over telephones and emotional Crossroads in the same country Of such ancient longings And inherent love. All of this still happens I lift my head from a hollow That yours has made A shrine for me And anticipate your call From a road that runs both ways
Friday the 26th of October, 2001.
Greenfield.
Today And History. Sitting at this roadside table With Ardennes shadows Falling across the path Towards a crossroads Where armies passed In distant conflict I open my flask And taste the earthy tang Of mushroom and chestnut, The texture of a place. Breaking warm bread I glance around at headstones, White against tilled plots Comparing the heat of my soup With that winter before my birth And a soldier who waited On frozen snow for cannons To disturb a more frugal meal Until these same trees splintered In the flame-lashed air. Today and history meet In the pages of his diary That I carefully wrap and return To my backpack like a map Of cherished places in this forest For the pilgrim his son has become. I rise and walk up the road With war a distant rumour On this August afternoon In the peace his life has bought me.
Wednesday the 31st of October, 2001.
Junior Porter, 1963.
This photograph from My seventeenth year Fails to convey the Bewilderment and cold Of a uniformed child Standing under gaslight In a vast warehouse. It was two-thirty a.m. on That vicious winter day. I was conscious of echoes From scurrying companions Around the smoke-stained Walls, stacked crates And random alcoves. The scents of sleepers Paraffin and steam as Morning drove spikes Into unused hands That found no respite In a sharp February From reluctant time. Until blessed heat From a tall white can Healed the corpse inside Dark wool and pale breath And a junior porter rose To open a booking office At the start of thirty years.
Wednesday the 21st of November, 2001.
She Smiles Softly.
From my kitchen window She counts embattled leaves On the flowering cherry And notices people Wrapped up against The end of November. She smiles softly At the spiteful rain. In the warmth of cooking I sense her standing near me Suggesting changes that Are generally ignored As herbs crumble and Add their green scent To the freshness That she wears. At the window once again She exclaims in joy as A pair of swans lift From hidden pools To fly an autumn circle As her eyes shine And she smiles softly At the spiteful rain.
Monday the 3rd of December, 2001.
Poetry Reading.
In this lecture hall they Select a favoured seat, Cough and converse About my last talk Or television While I watch, Shuffle books And decline to speak. I try to recognise faces, Listen to an introduction And thank them in return Until a door bangs with Latecomers and We begin again With an Air That kills Adlestrop and Fern Hill. They appear to approve As I start on the Descent in to my own. A sense of place and Obsession with the light, Natural textures and Reflections from water In meandering rhyme. Questions begin when I thank them for listening And obscure references Meaning nothing to me Are wrapped in flowery Words as a personal gift. Looking false and modest I journey home.
Tuesday, 22 January 2002
Distant And Different.
Like a landscape glimpsed Through a hospital window It was lovely beyond sterility I remember when even the Hedgerows were covered And blended with lanes In a Victorian engraving. I could hardly see the road But windows flashed from Across the valley where my House caught the sunlight That promised warmth yet Only defined shadows Distant and different. Frozen snow became sheep As drifts moved towards me And the negative blackness Of a raven quartered fields In hope of life and food And strangely matching An elemental hunger. My schooldays ended then As Christmas and New Year Tested constant plainsong From those singing timbers With ice and the challenge Of a searched-for maturity Distant and different now.
Monday the 18th of March, 2002
St Winefride's Well.
A violet ribbon of day Still glowed on the horizon And someone walked ahead With a guttering lantern As he answered the faint call From this distant Cantref. Beuno arrived when the Tide began its retreat. He could not see through The cave-like darkness Yet felt salt ebb and Frost form in the night. There was a hollow In the hillside above A bountiful stream that Was suited to his needs And a strong presence He was lost to explain. His strength grew under These heights and silences Where he meditated on the Simple cadence of water And waited for Gwenffrewi In this healing silence.
Wednesday, 20 March 2002
Words And Music.
The first of our group begins his reading By striking a pose and being 'northern' In a manner more suited to a 'sixties That he can not possibly remember I do but enjoy his work and listen To the musings of a fellow traveller. On an April evening this school is quiet The may is out on hawthorn branches And a scouting party of swallows are Searching the sky for early insects While satirical magpies mock Both our words and their music. My work follows in stumbling sequence As I try to blend with a folksong that Has filled our minds with shadows And sunlight from another time. Above the trees I see a pub roof Which does not help my delivery. After the show we dissect our evening At tables where the night is kind With springtime bats and beer. All agree there is nothing new To say in words and music And retire with our own voices.
Monday the 22nd of April, 2002
A Picture From Herne Bay.
Behind a child on holiday You can see barbed wire Wrapped around railings Above a pebbled shore And a section of pier Removed against invasion. There are signs everywhere Giving martial warnings And strange white rings Around trees and posts A temporary measure That lasted forty years. His father is in uniform And mother looks pensive As her son sits proudly On an austerity donkey Only fit for pet food - He sees it as a stallion. Today an older child remains Searching through albums And finding only treasures As the soldier and his wife Walk together, contented In days of eternal sunlight.
Wednesday the 8th of May, 2002
Aunt Olive.
She was caretaker for A much loved chapel And expended hours of Joy and lavender wax To soothe away scars Of pit-boots between Its door and pews. Thunder crashed often From the pulpit when Welsh idolaters visited And she would meekly Chastise the preacher For unfortunate words At her shared tea table. Her home-made wine Blessed those meals And flowed biblically Between each course Like a Staffordshire Balm of Gilead to Heal the unworthy. Treating all the same With sympathy and care And expecting nothing For a freely given love She was an innocent Among the barbarians Of her collier family.
Monday the 13th of May, 2002
A Memory of Emily.
It snowed that night And in the morning Enhanced light wrote In ancient rhymes Across our ceiling Of her land preparing For the long, slow Sleep until spring. Her breath blessed My shoulder when I reached in search Of familiar contours That were thousands Of miles and oceans Away from Ontario In another life. Then Emily awoke Understanding smiled From her healing eyes As I, safe and wondering Took her face in my hands In that revealing morning And a cave of raven hair Took our day away.
Tuesday the 8th of October, 2002
Once In Translucent Night.
There were no footprints In the newly fallen snow And no hint of movement In those long shadows Between lamp standards Yet once under gaslight I heard someone walk Along the platform. I waited for a while until Forgotten senses called Me back in to the circle Of warmth and light And the comfort of A book and fire before Midnight changed February to March. Later in translucent night After the last departures I heard the footsteps again. They paused as I locked My station and waited In the drifting darkness Until another stranger left With a sense of wonder.
Thursday the 14th of November,2002
In Empty Orchards.
Pale amber fire of ice Had burned his mind While experience fed The flames to heights That lit his world Of tenuous splendour For too brief a time. He watches summer Fade from windfalls In empty orchards Remembering how The sunlight fell in Waves and drew soft Patterns on her skin. Days seem different And confusion mists Her shape and scent Yet a wistful smile Recalls the faults That led to isolation In a break of years. Pale amber fire of ice Now fails to burn away This sense of distance From reality and hope While days collapse And dreams forgive For too brief a time.
Monday the 3rd of February, 2003
Valentine's Day.
Love's hands exchange Their tokens today And plant the spring In gnarled February To hope for leaves That shelter summer. Tracing Celtic writing Across iced meadows I travel longingly in Our border landscape And think of you as A fire through velvet That dances beneath And with the lightness Of my touch when a Russet fox recalls The autumn glinting From your hair. Love's hands exchange Their blessing today While a simple bond Explores the depth Of our belonging In eternal seasons.
Derek Richardson. Monday the 24th of February, 2003.