Sunday, 30 August 2015

Sunday





Listening to

* the sixteen*

their notes floating

in,

and drifting down

to hide among the

bright folded

Sunday sheets.

Vacation is coming.

I have so many books to read
and catch up on ~

and don't know which ones to take.

the wind is blowing outside the window

almost as if it is

sending falling

stars onto the floor.

Coffee, warm and bitter .

Down the row houses

and the row lives

Sunday papers are being read

lunch is being prepared.

All behind hidden windows

that no one ever sees.

My mind assures me

that summer , can we call it summer? ....

will stay.

Or at least, arrive.

The church bells are ringing.

The singing of God's praises has started.

Sunday.







Tuesday, 18 August 2015

These little things







I've wakened early.

Dawn is spilling in through

the attic window

and

far away I  can hear the sounds

of circling seagulls.

Sea birds that come to town.
That fact always amazed me.

Like they are taking a vacation from the sea!

Nearer,
the sounds of lorries ,
cars~
and a world waking to
a brand new day.

A day when all over the world
coffee will  be drunk
washing will be hung out
like dancing ribbons on lines

people will get on planes,
to come,
to go.

How big this world !

Soon ~
we will go to the rugged Cornish Coast
where the sky will hang
( we hope)
like a turquoise sheet.

Daphne Du Maurier
will rest in my palm
and her words
will fill my soul.

These little things,

of life



Sunday, 9 August 2015

Down to the sea we went





Those old,

wild restless longings

returned ~

so down to the sea we went.

I'm tired,

jaded.

I needed to feel the wind
in my hair

and taste salt on my lips.

Like that day on Scarborough beach.

These past
mornings have almost
felt like Autumn
and I'm not ready for that.

Not yet.
Summer is still sitting
on my bones
and it's
only
33 days until holiday.

To go where the sea is a riot of colour

and crashes on the rocks,

to walk among the everlasting hills.

Go

down

to

the

sea

again



Sunday, 26 July 2015

The quietest things






The city is grey with rain again.

I'm drinking coffee ,

listening to old songs and

thinking about what joy

writing brings to me.

These  beautiful little

pearls that push into my palms

and fingers and flow out like

water from a harbour to the sea.

The light is fleeting,

rare ~

disappearing  all too quickly.

Days go by  like beads on an abacus.

Quickly, quickly.

I realised the other day

I write because I want to remember.

Each day,

each moment of life

pressed like rose petals in a book.

A book that can be returned to
to catch the perfume
of what once was.


I ( often )
wonder does it matter,

that every day
of the last fifteen years
one of my small joys is the sound of the 7am flight
passing over our house,
London bound?

It brings such calm, you see.

Oh these beautiful days.

Wear them, ( I think to myself)
like  a necklace
of pretty glass beads.


Make these moments precious
dear hearts

make them count

like

all

the

beautiful

little

pearls.

It's the quietest things, you see

that

bring

joy



Sunday, 19 July 2015

The richness of light






We are,

a handful of all

the beautiful things.

Strange little pearls

that life scatters

across our hearts.

Summer.

It's like trying to find

the X on a pirate's map


and yet,

there have been days

when the sun has warmed us

our faces lifted to the sky

waiting for

a shower of golden

tattered confetti

to

fall.


Then come the days

when the sun hides

away,

and yet  we love ~

we wait;

because we know

the rainbows

will bleed

colour

over the street

while we listen,

and wait again.

Until summer

returns


Sunday, 12 July 2015

Still grows the dog rose



9 am

open the windows wide

let July breathe her warm air

over me.

Are we really be half way

through this year already?

I have days circled to

celebrate .

Quiet and soft days

when I'll pretend to

be Daphne Du Maurier

walking along the

Cornish coast,

my bag full of her books.

This summer is still young.

Still grows the dog rose,

and

those

days

that wait,

for

us

Wednesday, 8 July 2015

These hands


These hands 

have cradled me in my darkest hours

Laboured long days 

and nights to keep our home in shape

built fences

flown kites with me and 

circled mine with love.

I love these hands.