Spring late afternoon soft light
glows hazy through wafts of cinnamon and citrus
and light wood smoke like tasting notes
from a rare single malt.
Clouds of apple blossoms float over
and for a moment it’s too much and I am lost in the moment.
Bang! I hit my head on a single low-hanging apple
half-hidden somehow in the light foliage out of time
heavy, dark red, shining, menacing.
From somewhere nearby I hear your laughter.
A translucent leaf lies by the prickly close-cropped hedge.
When you pick it up it shimmers pink
yet when you hold it up to the early morning sky
it glows green-blue-white.
At last we turn and come down the long hill
and bottom out where the trees lean tall
bright green high and feathery,
filled with blackbirds’ liquid trills and silent, warm, green-blue light.
Dandelion spores float shining,
each tiny, hairy follicle glistening,
across the soft blue sky towards long stretches of hazy light cloud
and the water reflecting their changing
on warm air where that effortless tension resolves
as we lose sight of them in the sun at the horizon
and the long shadows from the skinny bare young tree branches
and the hedge beyond, dark green but also brown and deep golden.
Through irregular gaps the sun comes persistent, warm, and strong.
A muddy path descends
through shining dark leaves,
irregular patches of pale yellow light,
light brown and yellowish grass,
till the brook emerges from half hidden rocks
to wander beside the path and the two merge
in those pools and puddles and rivulets
where we stand now here by what we call the tree shrine
at the edge of the stand of slender poplars
and watch the glistening water flowing by.
Early Spring. The pavement ahead shimmers.
A light breeze blows off the river.
I run hard, then find myself behind
a tall man in high-viz vest, dark trousers, dark boots,
walking heavily away from the depot.
Slowing down, I smell strong, spicy dry cologne.
We come round the bend
into light off the fresh expanse of sand,
the tidal flats glistening.
Ash Wednesday. It is warm. We walk towards the bridge.
Waves of grey mist sweep across the river where
the mud is deep and sticky
and we tell bits of the story.
The mist blows and shapes appear
and reappear in the mud and the water
turning darker where they meet.
This morning new and seasonable coldblue-grey sky stretches still and steelyover the winding half-dark pathand as on other mornings my prayers by Christ’s five woundsare interrupted. Once lost in ardent dialogueI did not see what was in front of my face till it hit me in the facea low-hanging slender willow branchIt splashed me with cold clear rainwater.Or again as I ran out to the confluence of Trym and Avon, the dark tidal estuaryedged by mud and tufty stunted grassfrom out across the gently scented stale salty watersomeone shouted to me from a rowboat ‘Morning!’ ‘Good morning!’ I repliedflinging my arm high,then turning to run back downthe slippery path shining with grit and standing waterhome to our front door.
Cut wet grass, life’s steam, everywhere is humididity.
Early morning overcast glare, warm July air, breathe fedundity.
Stepping through the door I have a sudden urge for poetry.
It’s St Bridget’s Day, mother, widow, patron of Europe, friend of generosity.
Time is now somehow suspended in the grass glimmer’s bright liquidity.
The granular, angular path disappears in a field of hollyhocks beyond the old oak tree.
sunshine frothing
Holy Week and Easter 2020
A Series of Free Compositions
——————————————————
Palm Sunday. At the park early this morning no one yet.
Still sunshine. Coronavirus has stilled the traffic.
Somewhere beyond the trees
two male woodpeckers compete and converse
across the luminous green-blue space
of sky and quiet football pitch.
———–
Good Friday morning.
I put on a dark shirt, old aftershave,
the sky steady blue
in Coronavirus stillness.
The sheer evergreen in the garden
reaches beyond the dark roofline opposite.
——–
Holy Saturday clear sun,
the path worn into the grass outside the fence
where people with dogs can still walk now
uneven, dry, brown-orange underfoot
but broken open
in the Coronavirus quiet
and birds in the big still bare apple tree squabble.
Life goes on open to warmth and suffering.
——-
Waiting for an answer to prayer is more than an untestable idea.
The shadows have shortened now
in the back garden and on the fields beyond.
——-
Park bright yellow-green
gate swinging. It’s Easter Day.
One shiny crow stock still.
———-
A patch of unstintingly blue sky
out of the kitchen window
is cut by the white windowsill.
Pain may take a long time.
It is not mere formalism to trust the forms of life,
the glass vase full of wilted purple flowers
still bright
three days after Easter.
———-
By the white house a bee moves jerkily from pink daisy to daisy,
It’s easy to feel you and all things useless.
Alleluia.
I’m jolted from reverie by something tickling my arm:
a cloud of dandelion spores floating
free
radiant, joyous, glorious.
——-
Clear May Day — and St Joseph the Worker’s Day — and sun shines over
broken arcs of dark tree boughs
and deep blue sky,
the many-coloured blur of passing cars,
glistening dew and residual rain,
the divets and ruts in the dirt path aruond the fenced playpark,
bright green
empty
in lockdown.
For a moment
we look on through the trees.
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