These are the days

the days that pass in a blur of dark and light

the days when by mid afternoon

we huddle in our curtained rooms

and shut out the night.

 

The days of miracle

the days that are full of glittered decoration

the days when presents fill the minds of everyone

to give and to receive, wrap and unwrap

and share, with anticipation.

 

These are the days of wonder

the days of glistening lights on every street

the days when trees leave the forest

to wear indoor finery while we call

cheerful blessings to all we meet.

 

These are the days of miracle and wonder

The short days of the solstice and the longest night

the days when the world sleeps and yet

outside my door an onamental quince has already

opened new flowers to welcome the light.

Pale shards of semi-whiteness across the river mouth:

thin cranes and looming gantries of the docks.

Against them, a brighter whiteness,

a lighthouse layered in sharp focus on its rocks,

the causeway a line of dark in the murky sea,

gulls following in case scraps were left behind.

An unrenovated fort stands

(proud as the lighthouse), sand

beneath, the strip decreasing with the rising tide.

Children, crowded on the shrinking beach,

pull small dogs in and out of lapping waves

or scramble barefoot, risking a spiked ending to the day

on boulders that keep the invading sea at bay.

A small yacht motors calmly towards the open water,

heading for the mists,

a noisy boat pulls a smaller one

in looping spirals round

the lighthouse just for fun

and there are shrieks of fright

or glee

while shuffling figures watch

from a pontoon

moored by a buoy that guards the channel

in case a ferry should go astray.

Crowds, shops, cars

as far

as the eye can see.

A queue

to find a space and then

another queue

for toilets or a drink,

or sandwiches that by the time the queue has gone

have vanished too.

Shaking the sand off our feet

and clutching a picnic we steal away

further along the coast and round the headland.

Turning south we reach

a long flat beach,

the tide

by now almost to the horizon.

A few dogs chase each other or a thrown ball;

a car braves the boat ramp

driving in crazy rings

near the sea wall.

The crowds have stayed

near the shops and ice cream vans.

Here there is loneliness and space,

only a few miles away.

We eat, watching a huge stretch of

damp sand

spread out to a charcoal smudge of what might be

sea.

A horse thuds past,

cantering against the sky.

Could we ride, we wonder,

all the way out to Ireland

if we were foolish enough to try?

 

I don’t usually post two poems in a row but this was an immediate reaction to a lovely day out, and needed to be posted while the date was still appropriate. Dedicated to Flair, who showed me round The Wirral, and whose birthday is this week.

March came in like a lion;

went out like one

as well, roaring.

(There had been

calm times in between.)

Pale petals

grabbed from trees before

the flowers were fully formed

mixed with the snow

that dissolved on the bare ground.

Bins scuttled down the road,

alive and rattling,

shedding rubbish as they went.

Washing landed

in a fishpond

for a second soak

(startling the inhabitants).

The prop that should have held

the clothesline firm

dug itself into the grass

to avoid being sent arcing

like a javelin

point first to a bitter end.

Hail drummed

on cars, paths, windows, roofs

and all around,

nestling like spilled sugar

in new foxglove leaves.

A fence waved, rippling

as if a mirage had taken hold

but it was only the wind

telling the world

that April was coming;

in its own, cold,

boisterous fashion

trumpeting Spring.

We took our grandson to the zoo at half term and I started writing an account of the day for my personal blog. Then I realised it had rhythms and hidden rhymes so I worked on it till I had a free-form poem.

It was a grey day

in February

and we paid a lot to get in.

They seemed to think it their due.

They were not there for our entertainment

but rather we

were there to contribute to postponing

their extinction

and after all

that’s the stated purpose of the zoo.

 

The elephants

were first. They stood stone still,

a faint greenness on their hides suggesting

moss had gathered

while they watched their waterfall.

 

The rhinos

regarded an English February

as beyond the pale.

They dozed in their dim house,

the baby disguised as what we thought at first

was his mother’s swollen knee

but his ear flickered slightly

giving the deception away.

 

The meerkats

had disappeared

(maybe underground?)

and we couldn’t find

the giraffe.

 

The monkeys

were truly glad to see us.

I think we

alleviated their boredom.

They scampered out to their

moated peninsula with glee.

Each time we left their house to see

they climbed back in

and when we returned

to the leaf shaded glass hall

out they went again.

A fine game

was had by all.

 

The zebra lay sleeping side by side

in a stripe of sunlight they had found

while next door to their compound

the bongo

gracefully camouflaged himself

in the shadow of his wooden hall

and pretended he wasn’t really there at all.

 

There were deer

(of various kinds)

too shy to give us more

than a fleeting glimpse,

A warty pig

(not to be confused with a warthog)

and a capybara

that seemed to be where

the map thought the meerkats might have been.

 

And still we couldn’t find the giraffe.

You’d think a long neck would help but no,

although

we saw some camels huddled

in a knobbly ring.

They circled,

doing (perhaps) an esoteric

camel dance.

The reason was something

not for us to know.

 

Only one tiger

was visible, pacing

with a look of impatience

while his mate and child

hid

somewhere safe and secret

until the keepers were due

to bring their meal.

The male, I’m quite sure, saw us as an alternative

if the keeper should chance

to be late that day at the zoo.

 

The cheetahs tried

to hide

(to cheat?)

on a roof in their enclosure

but

it was still winter so we

could see them through the bare trees

and they looked less than pleased.

 

The Asiatic lions,

however, were proudly on display,

the male roaring a huge sound

– far too big for his size –

to let us know we should stay away.

 

There were birds ignoring us:

storks, cranes, and I think

a flamingo

though

as I missed it I have no

idea whether it was pink.

There were also ducks,

some of which were strolling on the paths like us,

like the blackbirds and starlings joining in

a general search, human and avian,

for snacks (or crumbs).

 

Squirrels,

too,

had decided there might be rich pickings at the zoo.

They must have had the sense

to avoid the big cats.

Either that

or they were extremely fast.

 

The fruit bats

simply dreamed on their branches all day

though a few

swooped

and fought and slept again

pretending to be strange fruit

and by this ruse fool

their natural prey.

 

The chimpanzee

house was closed for maintenance,

whether of the house, inmates or both

the sign failed to say.

 

By the time we reached the butterfly house

that was closed too

because it was almost the end of our day

at the zoo.

There were signs

saying ‘aviary’ and ‘aquarium’

but by then

we were on the way

out.

They would have to wait

for another day.

 

We joined merging streams

flowing towards the gate.

There was tension in the air,

an anxiety not to be late,

locked on the wrong side

at some keeper’s whim.

What did the inmates make

of all these others in their bright coats

who came every day and invariably left

at teatime?

 

Then we were all spilling, tumbling into car parks,

chattering about what we hadn’t seen

and what we’d wanted to see.

(We still hadn’t found the giraffe.)

But whatever we had observed

it was time we dispersed

to our own family paddocks,

our own keepers

and our own tea.

I’ve been away – physically away (and parted from the internet for a while) and mentally away since my return. The poem below probably sums it up. The picture is, of course, the Guggenheim in Bilbao, which we visited on a cold grey January day.

Grey

Cold grey

Not the crisp off-white chill of ice or snow

Not the warm grey of clouds of summer rain

A dull day

 

Grey

Grey thoughts

Not the frisson of grey approaching dusk

Not the warm grey sea of semi-dreaming

Dull thoughts

 

Grey

Grey life

No tinge of green, blue, gold, emergent spring

No warmth of summer or of autumn colours gleaming

Just grey

 

Grey

Grey skies

No other colour except beige dry grass

Nothing quickening the winter mind

A grey day

The road crew came, setting

out their small signs

and taking

the business of directing

traffic very seriously.

Red for stop

Green for go

Yellow for the mimosa

they were cutting

slashing

stacking

clearing.

Sad to see the blossom

destroyed

at the height of its pride

but in a few weeks

there would be interdictions

against bonfires.

Few landowners

would want

to store

and squirrel

the wood against the winter cold.

The heavier timber

dried

would keep flames

burning

when the flowers

were just a dream

but the yellow flames

of the mimosa blooms

would not warm

the woodstoves

when the world turned

again to ice.

And without

the harvesting

the flames would burn

wild and bright

in the summer sun.

So the road crew did

what had to be done,

and moved on.

Note: Wikipedia and various other sources assure us that mimosa is a tropical weed that has spread to Europe and we know the roadside trees and shrubs are a fire hazard but the flowers are some of the first colours of spring and are simply glorious.

They keep falling.

Some still green, clinging.

Some drab and shrivelled, already dead, not merely dying.

Some, painted red, yellow, tan or oxblood,

Are spiralling and flying.

They keep travelling.

Some chase each other as they fall, dancing

In winds that take them far from their beginnings,

A last journey of delight and new-born wonder,

With wishes granted for those catching.

They keep drifting

Some dry and edge-curled are high-piling

Into mounds of brown with crimson or ochre peeping

When feet, finding the ground obscured

Simply plough through, crunching.

They keep rustling.

Sounds of life and summer faintly crying

Until rain spreads spores of decaying

And the sodden mass merges with mud

Or drains, sighing.

They keep wandering.

When all have fallen, a few, staying

True to some heroic myth of surviving,

Maintain lace skeletons to delight

Anyone finding.

Above all, and beneath all lying,

They keep dying.

Coach horses, coach horses, what time of day?
One o’clock, two o’clock, three and away!

The rhyme slips smoothly through my mind.
While your star seeds prance,
ready to run with the wind.

Children try, excited,
for the smallest number
and the fastest end.
Once upon a time
I might have copied them.

If I blow gently,
with care the count might reach ten
or even midnight’s chimes.
No point beyond that.
Starting again at one would not
help hold back the time.

These horses should plod slowly.
The coachman should restrain
his team and let the days pass
quietly with sunshine-filled laziness
in the long grass.

Summer is not for thundering hooves
or scattering hours.
In a season too short for true pleasure.
Even the wildest of flowers
should learn to enjoy leisure.

Your clock is impatient
but my breath is contained.
Dandelion, your coach horses must stay;
without my soft huff of agreement
they cannot yet race away.

Meeting.

Words skip across the internet
falling rowdily into emails,
excited and on edge
with the thrill of planning.

They tumble from mobiles
texted with trembling fingers
(on a train then on a bus)
with the joy of arrival.

A few gush (from the same mobiles)
identifying time and place,
worried and intense
with the concerns of finding.

Many bound across a table top
skirting drinks and food,
relaxed and confident
with the pleasure of the moment.

At last they sigh into the night air
slipping softly into departure,
glad, sad, remembering
until needed again.