SALTMARSHE DELPH

 

 

 

Saltmarshe Delph

Sometimes, deep in hidden corners

We discover whole new worlds.

Like here, where the horseshoe river-course

Bends its oozing flow from south to east,

And in its curving grasp the land is flat and wet.

This place exists in quiet insignificance

To all except the myriad of life

That thrives within its few small acres.

But what a life! Nestled here,

Between the railway

And the sprawling, golden fields,

Is a colony that makes its own sufficiency;

On the edge, and yet a world away,

From the cruder works of men

Who pass it, scarcely noticing,

(Except, perhaps, to wryly smile

At the family of swans that walks,

With proprietorial disdain,

Along the centre of the road),

And in quiet co-existence

Maintains a natural diversity

Whose model we could never recreate. 

And yet, by curious paradox, it was born

Where once men tore the earth with brutal might.

Then subtle nature softly healed the scars,

Creating, over time, her own cathedral

From arching willows, bent

To make a glorious vaulted roof,

And, for a floor, the shining mirror-levels

Where miraculous pond striders

Can walk upon the water.

Here blackbirds, dragonflies and warblers

Delight in curling ferns and wild geraniums,

Whilst grebes and cormorants find rest

And food amongst the bordering reeds.

With their very lives they praise

The deity that we have long denied,

For, today, our gods no longer live in trees

Or call us to the stillness of the glades,

But occupy, instead, the sterile spaces

Deep within the gloom of our own minds.

Here’s proof (if proof were needed)

That even the most restless spirit

Doesn’t always have to yearn

For wilder vistas on a grander scale,

But can sometimes be content

With nature in a gentler guise;

A modest Utopia, perhaps, but nonetheless,

Once we have the luck to find them,

It’s these small worlds that often form

The greatest landmarks of our lives.

GIVENDALE

 



Givendale

Along a wrongly-taken road, unexpectedly we found ourselves at Givendale.

Here, in a setting that would make the most obdurate heathen turn to God,

Or, perhaps, recall the long-forgotten whisperings of other, older deities,

A simple, ancient church stands in a corner at the valley head,

Clasped deep within the arms of overhanging trees

And gazing out with narrowed window-eyes across the stretching water

That mirrors clouds onto the valley floor and feeds a trickling beck,

Joined, along its way, by sudden springs from deep within the hills.

 

No grand Cathedral Close or Minster Yard could ever have such power

To impress the eye and, with its beauty, lift the soul to unimagined heights.

Here I was lulled by charm of sun and sense of place

To sit in silence and, perhaps, to wish I could remain forever

And simply feel that life and time had, in this quiet corner,

Slowed down below the speed that we alive can comprehend.

 

Inside the church the stillness deepened more,

As Green Men gazed out from an ancient arch

And a heady scent of hyacinths pervaded the whole air.

I felt that if I never left, I’d be at peace – and almost envied those who lay

Where wood anemones and celandines grow thickly

And blackbirds’ calls are not a dirge or sadly tolling elegy

But celebrate, instead, the living spirit that pervades this place.

 

Then later, as we walked by woodland paths and ate wild garlic with a greedy joy,

The pungent taste affirmed the all-pervading pleasure

That we, on such a day as this, were here and alive.

.

 

 

 

MAY DAY



May Day

Feel it.

The vital life-force bursting from the earth;

surging upwards into plants and beasts

and deep into the loins and breasts

of every man and woman -

unchained, at last, from the emasculating,

iron-binding grip of Winter.

Even the ill-omened blackthorn,

keeper of dark secrets,

has withdrawn her pins of slumber

to become the harbinger of Spring.

In celebration with her sister, May,

she bursts forth with the frothing, fervent,

effervescent foam of life.

 

From every sprouting tree,

the Green Man gazes down,

grizzled, gleeful, grinning,

with lascivious leer and lecherous laugh,

overseer of the ancient rites

of celebration, intoxication, copulation.

From voyeuristic vantage he surveyed

the happenings of ages long before

we became estranged from nature’s ways,

enacted always at this time

underneath the blanket

of oak and ash and thorn.

And he knows that the sap of life

still rises unconstrained and is, as ever,

celebrated on this day.

 

 

THE TRAIL OF FOXES

The Trail of Foxes

 

Today, I tried to take the trail of foxes,

slyly following marks engraved

on powerful terrain, made over years

under the half-closed eyes

of dubious and fitful moons.

I felt the overwhelming need

to creep in surly, inauspicious places,

for, just like those who follow gypsies,

I am greedy to uncover,

things I’ve never been allowed to see.

But armed and vicious gate-keepers of briars

stabbed and stopped my curious advance,

preventing that one sudden, fleeting glimpse

of deeper insight into worlds

that only foxes know.

 

APRIL FROST

 

 

April Frost

This is not the time for frost,

When Winter’s hard-edged shadow

Should have passed beyond the sun

And, this side of the solstice,

Fragrant Spring should walk the land

While laughing blackbirds pierce the air

With pure and exuberant joy.

Instead, long spears of ice, with perfect aim,

Have stabbed them to the very soul.

In verges, daffodils hang down their heads

And, like me, long for life-affirming days

Of subtle sun and breeze-blown air

That will send me scurrying to the hills

With light and careless tread,

Happy as the towering lark

To be, at last, away from winter woes

And for the lifetime of a day

Feel again the freedom of the sky.

Last night, hares still danced in moonlight,

Cold-footed in the sparkling fields,

Unsure when, if ever, the true purpose

Of the tardy year would begin.

Now, shrill, complaining yellowhammers

Take up the disconcerting call

And the once-cheerful chaffinch

With only cold despondency creates

Its early morning song.

 

 

 

 

 

NIGHT WALKING

Night Walking

Night walking out in open country

Under the unseen ceiling

Of a barrel-vaulted sky.

Dark, without a moon or stars,

As if the gods of night had thrown

A blanket over evening and earth,

Sealing off their silent sleep

From the moans of mewling mortals.

It has created, on this one night,

A curious combination of the beatific and banal;

Something not anticipated, and yet

Curiously fulfilling latent expectations.

I cannot see my feet, but only hear my footsteps:

 

(One

two, three,

four, five, six).

 

As the infinity of darkness draws me onwards

Towards the epicentre of this unconscious world

I gasp at the enormity of where

The black-hole irresistibility enfolds me.

How many more steps till I’m absorbed?

 

(One

two, three,

four, five, six?)

 

Somewhere in the distance

I seem to hear a voice that asks me who I am

And what presumptions bring me here.

I confess, out loud, that I don’t know the answer.

In fact, I have my doubts if anyone

Knew this happened in the night

And, with brutal honesty, even if they did

I doubt if anyone would care.

Turning, I begin to ask myself

If I ever can return

From these realms of quaint half-dreams

To where once-welcome morning

Calls me once again.

A passing hunting owl says not.

 

THE WYRE OAK

 

This poem grew like the oak – slowly, unevenly and to a much bigger size than I envisaged. I fought to write it in blank verse but the rhymes just kept asserting themselves so, in the end, I let them have their way. The poem is nothing like I intended it to be and it leaves me feeling strangely uneasy. Perhaps I need to go and sit under the tree and read it.

 

The Wyre Oak 

 

I heard tell of a timeless oak

That for centuries has stood

By a long-forgotten path

Where once, they say, there was a wood.

The old ones call it Wyre Oak;

Its age is such that no-one can

Tell me how it came by that

Or when the legend first began.

 

It was inevitable, I knew,

That soon we would be called to meet,

So on a strange, snow-sprinkled day

When startled Spring and Winter greet

Each other with cold courtesy,

But neither of them can yet agree

Who is to stay, or to depart,

I went to find this long-lost tree.

I knew the path I had to take,

Where few will ever walk again

Along the briar-barriered way,

Where fox and hare play hunt-the-wren

Amongst the scattered, rotting stumps

Of fallen and uprooted trees,

That form self-grown memorials -

Destined to mark their own decease. 

 

Just as I wondered where to search,

How far abroad I’d have to look,

I saw a faintly-beaten track

Not made, I knew, by human foot,

And following its wavering course,

It led me to an open space

Where, just like a watching hare,

The tree stood in imposing grace. 

 

Could this, I wondered, be the spot

Where all the creatures of the wild

Are drawn to when the moon is full,

Unshriven and unreconciled?

And was it also, long ago,

The place where human lovers came

Who knew the talismanic charm

Of ancient trees by ancient lanes? 

 

For just how many lives of men,

How many autumns, winters, springs;

How many turnings of the earth

And drowsy winter slumberings

Have you stood firm upon the earth?

Ah, you were alive when they,

With a stroke of levelling axe,

Felled the tyrant majesty.  

 

And standing in your shadow, now

I realise with growing fear

How fragile we must seem beside

This overwhelming might of years,

As the cruel chaos of our lives

Time exposes, day by day,

Who have no deeply-planted roots

To anchor us in nurturing clay. 

 

But while the span of man is short,

Time is kinder, far, to trees,

Asking nothing in return,

For freely-given centuries.

And blackbirds, chaffinches and owls

Who see your mighty power unfurled,

Know you are more than just a tree;

Here and now, you’re a whole world.