THE RHYTHM OF WOOD

THE RHYTHM OF WOOD

‘Hazel Burns well - made for fire

Ash splits and cuts easily. The thorn

is the best. Elders are useless’, he gestures

through gaps. His hands are veined

like leaves, he touches his cap in thought.

He is a character from this town land;

born of the substance of soil,

his pride in wood-piles.

A shy bachelor smile - and dragging a branch,

comments on the cold March - his furrowed brow

like his fields are full with life, and worn with the

tread of time, fertilized with the rapture of repetition

which feeds his ragged trouser philanthropy?

Forty acres with a rose-scented doorway to the past, 

and at last, reconciled to being a bachelor and a good

neighbour. I smile gratitude for his earthy routine -

the rhythm of wood freely given.

FUSHIA

FUSHIA

I sway in the swirling spring winds

I am starting to bloom but it’s late,

Small birds perch in the hedgerows -

I like the sandy soil between

Two worlds.

Down by the foams – the wing-span is wide

Dipping between low and high tide.

THE LAST FIRE

THE LAST FIRE

You gathered sticks

to bathe the night with fire,

You, in your element

smiling with watery eyes;

happy sighs - as you bent.

The next day your soul gathered

over your cold body

to be buried under sticks and clay...

THE VALLEY

THE VALLEY

A blow in still from Glasgow

though here  since he was 12.

He was proud of where he lived

in Falcarragh’s valley, not far

from The Station House

where he suffered depression

two years ago.

Hard to believe in a man

with a grin as wide as a rainbow

risng from the mist forming

about the foot of the mountain.

THE EDGE

THE EDGE

You smelled the lake before you saw
The edge – aromas of a time before –
You absorbed the tears of a broken
Mother – while they put wet clay
Over your Father.

Loosing yourself in a haze of puberty,
In that barren land; you got lost in an
Advancing mist, but the ghost of your
Father finds you now, leaning in,
And whispering through the breeze;
“you’re not the first to suffer –
you can face adversity.”

Moved… to another time, another place,

When you made paper boats; with your
Dad’s fragile breath – whispers of wonder –
Setting them free….
You look to the sky and feel, you sense
A different sphere and know…. Your Father
Was in his element when he was with you
And water, on this land.

Although much of him has faded –

You realise this, it fastens you to
The earth – loneliness disappearing;
Drifting away from the edges.

 

 

  

BLOWN

BLOWN

Below the long-grassed dunes

the water-like shadows of sands pass

like time itself…I shudder at the force

of the wind, and the realisation

that life can scatter as quickly; become

diluted by memory, but we always

leave shadows behind. I walk back-wards

for a moment as if to recapture time,

but it has moved on.

So now I stand still, searching the sun-

set, reflected in the sea-waves foamy light.

Above on the dunes; long grasses sway

and below the sand shifts and swirl their shapes

onto the exposed Northwest Shore, a feeling

I have been here before; blown…

 

A NEW DAWN OF WORDS

A New Dawn of Words

I try to let time pass,

Slowly - as always

Yet it still

Goes fast

Beauty of Words...

Ordinary life dimmed

Yet not put out

By this glorious light.

Peace surrounds me

Like a forgotten vale:

Un-earthed from childhood:

A forgotten state of grace.

A web of story-telling -

In a different place

This time…