Saturday, 30 May 2015

When summer comes





Dreaming
of when summer comes.

Driving home
watching school girls,
ponytails bobbing
and satchels wrapped round them
like cobwebs
of the learning week.

The silence
of waiting for the season
is blinding white
I long for
starfish
the smell of the sea
and caves
full of summer fireflies.

Come sun
shine like a jewel
on these days

when we will
go to the cockle shell cottages
and beaches
that glimmer like starlight.

Come

summer

come 

Sunday, 17 May 2015

3:30 am ( ish )








[ Header note ]

I lay awake

last night at 3:30 am ( ish )

wondering if I should write.

Soon,

sleep.

Oh,

the love I have for that quiet time

between night and morning

when all around are asleep

and Heaven is ready to shake off

her dress of silver stars

to herald a new dawn.

The occasional sound

of a car going somewhere

and the soft sound of the wind.

Then,

Chopin~  because nothing else

will do at that hour .

Let's turn our soft faces southward

to Cornwall in September

windmills

brightly coloured buckets and spades

chips from a paper bag.

All the while

looking out

to the laughing crystal sea.

Out to the tranquil bay we will go

and what of those

3:30 am ( ish ) thoughts then?






Sunday, 10 May 2015

Like falling ribbons





Pink and white blossom

floating down

like falling ribbons ~

This is the merry month of May

and I've been thinking

so much ,

of so much.

Does that make sense to you?

To me?

My sweet friend Kathryn's little boy's
first birthday
and our grandson's in a few weeks time.

The celebration of VE day

services and memories of those

who didn't make it home.

How quickly the years go by
like paper aeroplanes
thrown into the centuries ~
how quickly they fall to the ground.

As I look out the kitchen window,
the clouds are marching across the sky

and I can hear a choir, singing,
remembering,
from Westminster Abbey.

I'm thankful
for life
for love ~
 and new beginnings.

I'll watch on,
look out at the changeless hills

think of much,

of the fallen

those here;

and

those

to

come



Monday, 4 May 2015

The Lark in The Morning




The church spire

splits the sky

into blue  and golden shards

because today
the sky decided to be different.

The sun is bright
behind my eyelids

and the new day
full of  possibilities .

Somewhere in the house
I can hear music ~

a girl singing
it's Maddy Prior

her voice is floating upstairs
on the scent of the coffee pot.

The first of this day.

Today I will love you wildly

as wildly as I always do

my prayers

pressed between two palms

sincere

sincere

sincere

I have never loved you more

Sunday, 26 April 2015

For Nepal








We don't often
get to church these days.

Sundays ( seem to me)

to stand in silent rows

each one
waiting

to turn up again

as if the last one
had just left.

I miss the prayers and hymns
so my heart soars across
the field beside our home
to where I hear the Church bells ring.

I imagine the raised faces
to the pulpit
and the heads bowed in humble prayer

the sun slanting through
the stain glass
that makes pretty patterns of God
on the floor.

I imagine the hearts looking forward
to the coming kingdom
the old ones gathering to talk
after the service,
then home
to the ritual
laying of the table.

Today I will pray for the people of Nepal.
And wonder if they did too.

On this the
first
and
loveliest
day
of
the
week


Monday, 20 April 2015

The glittering sea









We took a drive to the mountains

and I lost myself

in those distant slopes

the rocks,

full of memories

and hundreds of travellers

who  walked that way

before us.

A duck pond

with a little boy

and his sailing boat

which I loved ~

it's little white sail

reminding  me

of how quickly time goes by

as not so long ago,

it seems ~

that little boy was mine.

Then onward

to the glittering  sea

the sparkling ink of the waves

writing a timeless love story

on the waiting sand.

These days of spring

where  mountains walk on water

and

water

ripples

down

every

silent

hill

to

the

sea






















Sunday, 12 April 2015

When morning comes








I whisper of lands

that in my heart ~

are like returning birds

they come again,

so easily.

The morning

tells me

to shake the duvet off

and press my feet

to the waiting floor.

Downstairs
I listen to Karl Jenkins on
the radio

marvelling at such artistry

then
drink
espresso

while the rain makes
her home on the windows.

Soon, again,
night will come
chasing morning away
as she brings
her pointed
shining stars