THE WILLOW IN WINTER

 

Here's the last poem of 2012 - wishing everyone a fantastic 2013.

 

The Willow in Winter

 

Silent stands the weeping willow

Now that summer’s tune has gone

With the small birds who fly south for winter

To cheer new lovers with their songs.

And the fallen leaves now form a carpet

Where autumn scents still linger on

Then the wind disperses like our memories;

Precious hopes that now are flown.

 

You stand beneath the naked branches

Arms outstretched in the crystal air

And glance between the dangling fingers

That gently brush your golden hair,

Waiting for the days of pleasure

When love, like spring, is perfect bliss

And beneath the clothes of summer’s grandeur

The body craves a lover’s kiss.

 

When days are short and nights are darkest

The moon her silver mantle spreads,

Casting over trees and mortals

The freezing cloth that passion dreads.

Still stands the willow in the moonlight,

Still as death through snow and rain,

Waiting for the breath of springtime

When love, like life, is born again.

 

 

 



THE SLOTHFUL SUN RELUCTANTLY RISES

The Slothful Sun Reluctantly Rises

 

The slothful sun reluctantly rises

Behind the curtain of a distant copse,

Dragged disconsolately (unlike me)

From its warm horizon bed;

In no hurry, it would seem,

To face the frosty air.

And in the west, the waning moon,

Loath to leave her night-time silver sprinklings

To the unkindness of the dawn,

Outstays her welcome as, yet again,

She meets the cold mundanity of morning

And her glory fades before the brutal rays.

But, roaming once more across the homely sky,

Reanimated rooks rejoice.

 

 

 

 

THE COMPANY OF TREES

 

Writing poetry can be a curious business; sometimes poems have to be struggled over for days, week or months whilst, at other times, they arrive unannounced. I met this poem on a late afternoon walk near my village of Wressle, as I was gazing at the sun setting behind an unassuming copse of trees. There’s a poignant backstory about this particular stand of trees: it was on this spot that, during WW ll, a Royal Canadian Air Force bomber, limping back from a night raid, failed to make the last few miles to safety at (I think) Wombleton and crashed, killing all the crew. Hidden away amongst the trees is a simple memorial to these men, erected by the owners of the land, Elizabeth and Colin Shutt.

 

This is dedicated to the late Roger Deakin, author of ‘Wildwood’, and to everyone who, like me, loves the company of trees.

 

The Company of Trees 

From the earliest time I can recall,

In wood or forest, or alone,

The joyful company of trees

Has thrilled me to the very bone.

Beneath a canopy of leaves

That shade the sultry summer heat,

Or in the winter witch’s grasp,

To the same tune my heart would beat

With earth’s vibrating life and soul,

Attuned, somehow, into my own

(Whilst emanating spirits share

The haunting memories of stones).

 

Perhaps, just like the dreamers say,

Whether in the realms of man

Or in some deep subconscious glade,

I must have seen the great god Pan,

Though by whose blessing this strange gift

Was bestowed on me, it’s not

Within my earthly powers to guess -

Unsure, still, of what I’ve got.

But, in the end, when I am gone,

This epitaph I’d wish to leave:

That those who knew of me will say,

“He loved the company of trees”.

 

 

Preparing for the Winter

 

 

 

Preparing for the Winter

 

The sun, as it weakens, casts long shadows now

Across fields sharp with stubble or brown from the plough:

A bite in the air brings the promise of snow

And bids us prepare for the winter.

The shining blade cleaves through the fragrant white ash

And the sour oak reluctantly yields to the axe,

Then we stack them all neat in a fast-growing stash

To warm body and soul through the winter.
 

From orchard and hedgerow that ripe fruits adorn,

Our mouths stained with juice and our hands scratched with thorn,

We gather the bounty and carry it home

To bring warm summer back to the winter.

Sharp cider froths and ferments in the can,

The hot scents of sugar and fruit in the pan,

And, lined up in the larder, spicy pickles and jam

To brighten our lives through the winter
 

As the frost dusts the ground with its sparkling hoar

We lace up our boots and head off to the moor

Where bright pheasants dance and the hare leaves its spoor

For here is our food for the winter.

And then when we see all our hard work is done

We’ll wassail and shout and fire off the gun

And drink to the laughter and feasting to come

As we welcome the onset of winter.

 

The year brought its laughter, its pleasure and pain,

Days filled with sunshine and others with rain,

New friends, and some old ones we’ll not see again

But who’ll live in our thoughts through the winter.

And if life’s like a year and the summer is gone,

Autumn brings blessings when the harvest is home,

So let’s wish that this one will go on and on

Until we’re prepared for the winter.

 

 

 

 

EARLY MORNING MIST

 

Early Morning Mist

A light and wispy blanket covers the fields

No deeper than the shoulder of a man,

Drawn from the frosty ground

By the first rays of the weakling sun

As it slowly steals the morning

From the wayward realms of night.

As ethereal and insubstantial, it is,

As the dreams that just an hour ago

Clouded my sleeping brain.

They vanished just as quickly into dawn,

And I was drawn from sleep

To go and walk amongst the mist,

Evading all responsibility for unconscious thoughts.

That is now the remit of the rooks

Assembled in the hedgerow oaks,

And the solitary hare.

 

 

THE FIRST FROST

 

The First Frost

 

The first frost took me by surprise

As, just after dawn, I went to walk the lane

Before the orange sun had any heat at all.

Not that it was heavy, yet,

But hard enough to crispen puddles

And turn the hedgerow grasses

Into the silver hair of the ageing year.

And then, an hour later, it was gone,

Leaving just a niggling hint of winter.

THE SWIMMER (FOR ROGER)

These are the words of a song I wrote just after hearing of the untimely death of my friend, Roger Deakin, in 2006. Roger was a genuine and unselfconscious eccentric; a wonderful writer, documentary-maker, environmentalist and co-founder of Common Ground, whose wild-swimming journal, Waterlog, became a UK best-seller. Two other books, Wildwood and Notes from Walnut Tree Farm, were published posthumously. One of the great nature writers of our generation, he always encouraged my own writing and his books are still a continuous source of  joy and inspiration.

 

The Swimmer

It was one of those moments when you feel the earth turning.

A three-quarter moon in a clear autumn sky

Brought into my heart a curious yearning

For things that have passed and have yet to pass by;

For friends who have gone and for those still remaining;

While the river of life still winds through the land,

Whose secrets, revealed by the long years’ waning,

Can slip through our fingers or be grasped in our hands.

 

There’s a feeling that time is not of the essence;

Not a fear of the future or delight in the past,

Just a space that is filled by a friend when his presence,

Is replaced by the pleasure of what he has left.

Now the spirits of the earth rise to embrace the giver

Like the low-lying mist of a soft autumn dawn,

And the swimmer goes down once again to the river,

Where, as sun glints on water, the dream is reborn.

THE ROAD TO LAXTON

 

 

The Road to Laxton
 

The land is flat on the wide margins of the river,

Prone to mist on slow, soft, sodden Autumn days

Before the lazy sun burns off the vapours

And spreads long shadows in unbroken ranks.

The dampness oozes into already-brimming ditches,

And amongst the rows of shining furrows, fresh-sliced in the clay,

Standing pools of night rain mirror ever-changing skies.

Groups of trees and solitary oaks and sycamores break up broad vistas

Where smug, sure-footed villages are firmly rooted amongst virile fields.

The road winds through this landscape in historical meanderings:

A tale of times when boundaries wrought by plough and privilege prevailed,

Making men and beasts move in ways unlike the crow.

Rooks, too, live here in rasping, raucous harmony

And sometimes starlings murmurate:

A thousand bodies with a single mind,

Ever reforming startling telepathic patterns in the sky.

 

 

AUTUMN LEAVES

 

 

Autumn Leaves

The leaves are falling now

And the very souls of the trees

Lie scattered at their own feet

In a hundred sultry shades of brown and gold.

Decay commences its inexorable task,

Creating scents, tobacco-rich, of mouldering earth,

Disturbing odours of mortality

And emanations of another passing year.

But here is fecund fuel for the foraging worms

Whose treasure the Spring spade will unearth

Or which will, in its turn,

Be food for the glorious buds to come.

 

 

THE HAWTHORN LEAVES ARE YELLOW

 

 

The Hawthorn Leaves Are Yellow

 

The hawthorn leaves are yellow on the hedge

Where the blackbird sits,

Undisturbed by my passing.

And yet, not unaware of winter’s stealthy tread,

He does not sing.

THE SHADOW PEOPLE

 

The Shadow People

By shadow hedge along the lane

Where shadow trees stand stark and plain,

Two shadow figures, shaped like pegs

Glide on fantastic shadow legs,

Their shadow bodies moving round

Like shadow stains across the ground.

And on his shadow head, see that

One shadow wears a shadow hat,

That makes the low sun’s piercing rays

Cast deeper shadows on his face

Where, beneath the shadow brim,

There’s just the shadow of a grin.

AUTUMN SUNRISE

 

Autumn Sunrise

The day begins with a service of radiant majesty

Enacted in the overarching cathedral of the sky.

Is this the funeral ceremony of summer

Which has slipped inexorably away;

A grandious display of exuberant pomp,

That celebrates the seasons’ sempiternal succession,

Bequeathing memories of vigorous and playful days

To the more mature mind of autumn?

If so, its passing doesn’t go uncelebrated,

And not entirely unmourned,

Although, breathing a long and soulful sigh,

We welcome a more somnolent and soothing time of year.

 

 

THE LOST PATH

 

THE LOST PATH

 

Today I traced a long-forgotten pathway,

Still discernible (but only just)

Between two lines of hedges

Long since grown to trees.

A portion, now, it is, for foxes

(Whose trails I failed to follow

With too-intrusive steps)

And where frightened, flustered pheasants

Find a welcome sanctuary.

Here sharp scimitars of briars and

Rotten toadstool tree-stumps bar my way

As, stumbling forward, I seem to feel

The footsteps of another time,

Of village lads and lasses

Who wandered hand-in-hand on summer evenings

And stole shy, secret kisses

Where even prattling thrushes

Would never tell.