La Nuit Blanche
The night was white and sleepless
Dreamless, though the lion
And his pride roared, growled, grumbled
In the thick black sky
Somewhere by now over Europe
Say Southern Grecian isles
A plane was on its wayWinking blinking on its way
Steadfast, freighted with the ones loved
Joining the dots, making the links
And in a winter Sydney office one man
Prayed his child was sleeping, wife was coping
(Though he knew that god was gone)
While a thousand miles apart, rain of England, heat of France
Two grandmothers held their breath and waited
Waited, for the dawn and love to come
6th August 2009, Hounoux
Thursday 6 August 2009
Sunday 2 August 2009
Sally's: Stillness at noon
Watercolour mountains today
Where horizon tints the sky
Chinese backcloth mirage floating
But vibrant in the foreground
Palette knife thick Van Gogh in oils
Cezanne shimmer in the noon day
Scorched stoned in the sunlight
Vines, pines, hill-side marchers
Sunflower battalions obedient
Turning eyes right sun bright
Earth rust-baked, dry dust-caked
In silent heat throbbing
No movement, be still
The landscape's surviving
Conserving its forces
Holding its breath in the fierceness of noon
Sending a message, a balm for the spirit
Feeding the soul, in the quiet
Be still
28th July 2009 Hounoux
Sally's: The South and the Summer, the Sun
The land lies stunned sun-blasted
Pulsing far out hazy days lazy days
Shimmers and shifts mirage tricks
And bold as gold brazen brass
Essence of yellow, heads up
Look you in the eye, proud to be out
The psychedelic sunflowers stand
Serried ranks, ready to sing and to zing
The south and the summer, the sun
Hallucination drug-free trip
A walk at the end of the day
Clinging to shade to coolness of glade
Filling the senses and flexing the soul
The ochres, siennas, the Prussian, the rose
A palette a painting a poem
A snap for the album, mind’s eye
Make me bold give me voice, inspire
For I’m ready to sing and to zing
The south and the summer, the sun
Pulsing far out hazy days lazy days
Shimmers and shifts mirage tricks
And bold as gold brazen brass
Essence of yellow, heads up
Look you in the eye, proud to be out
The psychedelic sunflowers stand
Serried ranks, ready to sing and to zing
The south and the summer, the sun
Hallucination drug-free trip
A walk at the end of the day
Clinging to shade to coolness of glade
Filling the senses and flexing the soul
The ochres, siennas, the Prussian, the rose
A palette a painting a poem
A snap for the album, mind’s eye
Make me bold give me voice, inspire
For I’m ready to sing and to zing
The south and the summer, the sun
On the Milldown in July
In June the silver headed grasses danced,
dipping so graceful in every floating breeze,
and scattered careless through the rabbit-nibbled patch
were countless flowers of the poor chalk soil.
But now July has changed all that –
the taller grass is sere and brown,
stalks as stiff as sentinels;
and hard against a sunny sky,
the trees are darkly green.
The brightness now is berries,
orange, scarlet, green,
with promise of a bramble harvest soon to come
and oh swift sadness strikes
for autumn stalks the feet of summer,
and all must change.
And yet
I see promises.
Nothing stays the same,
or could or should,
for we are all, with this sweet world
becoming things,
growing, patterning our existence
with movement
which is itself a dance,
a reeling past of seasons of our souls,
and like the riches in the grass
or fruit that glows on trees,
are the treasures that are varying
as we grow on.
dipping so graceful in every floating breeze,
and scattered careless through the rabbit-nibbled patch
were countless flowers of the poor chalk soil.
But now July has changed all that –
the taller grass is sere and brown,
stalks as stiff as sentinels;
and hard against a sunny sky,
the trees are darkly green.
The brightness now is berries,
orange, scarlet, green,
with promise of a bramble harvest soon to come
and oh swift sadness strikes
for autumn stalks the feet of summer,
and all must change.
And yet
I see promises.
Nothing stays the same,
or could or should,
for we are all, with this sweet world
becoming things,
growing, patterning our existence
with movement
which is itself a dance,
a reeling past of seasons of our souls,
and like the riches in the grass
or fruit that glows on trees,
are the treasures that are varying
as we grow on.
Sally's: Summer Visitors
Late afternoon aerobatics
Swallows in swoop and dive
Dip and dash, sparkle splash
Then gone, flash of white, tails streaming
We watch the show exuberant
Free to view, spectacular
Summer visitors, shared use of pool
Then gone, flying south, Europe leaving
Changing child not full grown
A month in the sun to be free
Running wild, woman-child
Then gone, future calls, leave us grieving3
30th July Hounoux, for Lily
Swallows in swoop and dive
Dip and dash, sparkle splash
Then gone, flash of white, tails streaming
We watch the show exuberant
Free to view, spectacular
Summer visitors, shared use of pool
Then gone, flying south, Europe leaving
Changing child not full grown
A month in the sun to be free
Running wild, woman-child
Then gone, future calls, leave us grieving3
30th July Hounoux, for Lily
Sally's: The Gold in the Sky
Brighton, trudging homewards, as ever uphill
Dusk just beginning to spread fingers
Draining the city's colours to monochrome
The seagulls' ceaseless chorus inevitable
My thoughts on daily things, supper, weight of shopping
I chance to look westward and upwards
In the sky a glorious work of art
Is forming as I watch, stunned still, I watch
As lozenges of gold spread on the horizon
Spread over cloud banks, dove grey dusky pink
Turner I think priceless masterpiece painting
Adored by the masses, great treasure of the nation
But here, democratic, free to view
One night only, to have not to hold
Attracts few admirers, eyes in the gutter
Heads full of clutter, the daily the worry
Stunned still, watching, I give thanks
For the chance of a glance heaven upwards
For a glimpse of the treasure, the gold in the sky
July 21st Brighton, another poem past midnight
Dusk just beginning to spread fingers
Draining the city's colours to monochrome
The seagulls' ceaseless chorus inevitable
My thoughts on daily things, supper, weight of shopping
I chance to look westward and upwards
In the sky a glorious work of art
Is forming as I watch, stunned still, I watch
As lozenges of gold spread on the horizon
Spread over cloud banks, dove grey dusky pink
Turner I think priceless masterpiece painting
Adored by the masses, great treasure of the nation
But here, democratic, free to view
One night only, to have not to hold
Attracts few admirers, eyes in the gutter
Heads full of clutter, the daily the worry
Stunned still, watching, I give thanks
For the chance of a glance heaven upwards
For a glimpse of the treasure, the gold in the sky
July 21st Brighton, another poem past midnight
Purple gold and blue
I smile at the wood-pigeon’s enduring song
that links past and present like a jewelled thread,
that weaves unseen between the threads of darker hue,
then springs to sight as he cries
“Purple, GOLD and blue!”
that links past and present like a jewelled thread,
that weaves unseen between the threads of darker hue,
then springs to sight as he cries
“Purple, GOLD and blue!”
The air I breathe
I share the air I breathe
with the buzzard hunched atop the pole
the porpoise in his flashing roll
the hilltops’ stately trees
and butterflies and bees;
I feel the thermal’s lazy lift
I know the flowers’ sun-blest gift
and birdsong after rain –
and I’m a child again.
with the buzzard hunched atop the pole
the porpoise in his flashing roll
the hilltops’ stately trees
and butterflies and bees;
I feel the thermal’s lazy lift
I know the flowers’ sun-blest gift
and birdsong after rain –
and I’m a child again.
Granny's Apples
Did you throw an apple core, or maybe stone of plum
In the deep damp cutting where the sun could barely come?
And did you sit back on your seat,
with folded hands and tidy feet
and watch the spark-filled smoke
and the small fires it awoke
in the drier high-up patches,
where the grass was dry as thatches?
And did you ever guess
how these small gifts would bless
the children yet unborn
who in the early morn
tread gaily down that track
where the trains will not come back?
Now the blossom of the plum
tells of harvests yet to come
and the apple trees profuse
give the banks another use
and the fireweed holds its memories
of flying sparks on days like these.
In the deep damp cutting where the sun could barely come?
And did you sit back on your seat,
with folded hands and tidy feet
and watch the spark-filled smoke
and the small fires it awoke
in the drier high-up patches,
where the grass was dry as thatches?
And did you ever guess
how these small gifts would bless
the children yet unborn
who in the early morn
tread gaily down that track
where the trains will not come back?
Now the blossom of the plum
tells of harvests yet to come
and the apple trees profuse
give the banks another use
and the fireweed holds its memories
of flying sparks on days like these.
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