Remembrance Sunday 2023

To my grandfather

We came each one of us to pay respects
Some wearing hard-fought medals on their chest,
Some bearing those too frail by now to stand,
But all of us by memories possessed

Of those who went before us, fought and fell,
And left behind a story incomplete.
And thus we gathered round in drenching rain,
As puddles formed and filled around our feet,

Our thoughts not fixed upon the grieving sky,
Nor on the storm that in the silence roared,
But on the loved ones we remember still,
And name in private prayer before the Lord.

October 1916. A clerk thrust
Into the horror of the war receives
An emergency commission to replace
The dead. But now is not the time to grieve

For in the hellfire club machine guns pound
Away both night and day, and those who fall
Are merely numbers added to the list,
That tells the inhumanity of it all,

While comrades struggle on in thick deep mud
To carry, load and fire against the odds,
And trust that when the judgement comes
They will get mercy from almighty God

So hard to find among the drenching rain
That soaks the feet, and washes hope away.
It was a miracle this clerk survived –
And why his grandson gives such thanks today.

Stanton St John 22 Jun 23

A single church bell tolls across the field
And on the breeze a pair of red kites glide
Until above the scrubby copse are seen
No more, and in the matted branches hide.

And though it’s just gone eight o’clock, a drift
Of tall white ox-eye daisies turn their face
Towards the warm midsummer sun which gilds
The crimson poppies in their brief displays.

I am a human being. I am not marked
By things to do, or things I should have done,
Nor need I prove myself by many works,
Or tell a watching world how fast I run.

And yet… for all I know this to be true,
Sometimes I fear to stop, be still and breathe,
As if the doing were the measure of
My worth and not the grace I have received.

So let the earthquake, wind and fire recede,
And let me hear the gentle whisper speak,
Not just for now on this serene retreat,
But when the storms are breaking week by week.

At the station

Heading towards Exeter…

There are the days when poetry congeals,
When all creative thought’s completely drowned
Beneath the ceaseless flow of text and mail
Which drives imagination underground.

I long to hear the old familiar call
Of “Totnes, Newton Abbot, Exeter
St Davids, to start a new adventure where
I once more feel a sense of wonder stir…

Perhaps to walk an overgrown canal
That runs besides a now abandoned line
And find a quiet lane to Stover Park
Where nature overwhelms man’s grand design –

Perhaps fetch up at Dawlish where the sea
Presents itself in all its many moods,
Sometimes a vast grey angry canvas full
Of rage, sometimes a palette more subdued –

Perhaps head inland to the granite moors
Where time more slowly flows, is measured more
In weathering of the rocks, whose sculpted forms
Against bleak leaden skies invoke such awe.

And this is why I need to wander free,
To cast ways the gods of wanton haste,
To seek the open sense, restore the sense,
Of someone greater worthy of all praise.

Plymbridge Woods 3 Mar 23

There are some who see and some who don’t…

You trample all along the woodland floor
And talk with online friends without a care,
Ignoring every vital sign of spring
Your dog can taste upon the cool March air,

As through the litter and the mast she bounds
To send a blackbird, scolding, into flight,
While disapproving squirrels chatter, hiss
Until at last you call her. “It’s wicked, right!”

You chatter on about not much at all
Though she with plaintive eyes expects a treat
And droops her tail when you ignore her plea,
Your lack of understanding quite complete.

If only you would learn to stop, be still
And look around at what is really there,
To see a pair of goldcrests flitting in
The holly, fragile, delicate and rare

Or hear the chorus in the canopy
Of siskin, great tit, redwing, thrush and more
Or watch the skulking wren along the stream
Dip in to feed and hop from shore to shore.

But now you’re gone, your faithful friend at heel,
And as so often down the years the two
Of us are left to witness nature’s charms
And store up memories just for me and you.

Midwinter

Midwinter is the day the sun forgets to rise,
And drawing back the curtains’ a futile exercise,
For filthy rain is falling from the sodden skies,
And birds outside mere shadows in some dark disguise.

Yet I must go and lead the faithful few in prayer,
With Advent hymns to sing, and bread and wine to share,
To preach the ancient wisdom of the Spirit – and dare
To trust the word made flesh brings hope against despair.

For this is incarnation in its truest sense,
The Son of God who gives Himself at full expense,
And takes on flesh in pure and total innocence,
With grace enough to cover our every grave offence.

So though my being yearns this day for warming sun
I know the light still shines –
the darkness has not overcome.

H5N1

We all have many hopes and fears for the coming year. I certainly very much hope that during 2023 this terrible outbreak of avian flu will come to an end, and effective measures are found to combat the disease. Maybe not the ideal subject for poetry, but it is something that is all too often under-reported or ignored.

This was the year the birds fell. Silent
They lay – storm petrels, gannets, fulmars, geese,
And countless more besides, their lifeless forms
Exhausted by this virulent disease

That reaches every island, coastline, beach
Already spoilt by plastic, sewage, oil
Which we, unthinking, spilt or threw away.
Yet still they come, to winter on our soil,

Perhaps already sick, perhaps to catch
The plague that’s lurking here, while on our farms
The overcrowded poultry sheds are sites,
Of slaughter, fear, despondency, alarm.

This is the year the birds fell silent.
And no-one knows when all this will relent.

Two Autumn Poems

A single leaf

A single leaf is hanging on the cherry tree,
Tenaciously defying all of Autumn’s squalls,
A poor and bleak reminder of the summer past,
Until one day a frost arrives – and then it falls.

King Robin

Right in the thicket’s heart, amid the late,
Autumnal blooms I find myself surprised
To see a watching robin deep within,
All motionless and perfectly disguised,

His dark, unblinking eye the only sign
He’s not another leaf about to fall,
Or debris caught upon October’s breeze.
And then he’s gone – as never there at all,

For from his hidden perch he spots his foe,
Encroaching on his hard-won territory,
So with a few deft flaps he sees him off,
Before ascending to the apple tree,

And from his lofty perch he starts to sing,
For in this garden he alone is king.

2 Nov 22

Lynton and Lynmouth 23 Sep 22

My youthful steps were light upon this hill,
And never did I pause to catch my breath,
Or wait for others, ’til I reached the top
And wondered at the splendid view beneath,

While coming down, I would not heed the calls
To slow down or be careful – life was a race,
A joyous sprint, to see and find out more,
And so I always rushed from place to place.

But now I value every single breath,
And feel the strain upon each weary limb,
As I check my stride to match your smaller step
So you can also make this rugged climb.

For now I know a summit’s to be shared,
And memories made together, of cresting waves
That roll across the rocky, sunlit bay,
And wild horizons, empty, wild, untamed.

Yet here we cannot stay. You hold my arm
And, slowly braking with our aching knees,
We zig and zag the narrow, twisty path,
To find a nice refreshing pot of tea.

Heatwave 19 Jul 22

Must change the date on the wildlife camera!

Today a hot ill wind blows in from Spain
And bakes the ground already starved of rain.
The broody chicken pants and fights for breath,
The sparrows seek out shelter, fearing death,

While in the city trains no longer run,
And roadways melt beneath glaring sun
Reflected in the concrete, steel and glass
We used to make the future from the past –

Not thinking of the earth beyond, beneath,
Nor of the legacy that we’d bequeath,
So for the weary children on the street,
There is no respite from the searing heat,

And this one painful lesson they have learnt,
We kept on building while the planet burnt.

The Goatwalk

This is a very personal poem about my childhood in Topsham:

Beneath the lintel of this walled up gate,
I scarce could fit at eight years old. But there
Within this narrow frame, I first laid sight
On this enchanted place, became aware

Of how each tide could bring a different view.
At first I saw but water, mud and birds,
But step by step I learnt – am learning still –
How when the Exe is low and undisturbed,

The avocet may sweep from side to side,
Or oystercatcher probe with painted bill,
While far away the curlew’s plaintive cry
Competes with herring gulls so loud and shrill,

Until the tide – inevitably – will turn,
And all will fly away on flashing wing,
Perhaps to feed or find a different home,
As each new year plays out from spring to spring.

This was my consolation, and my joy,
When as so often lonely and confused,
For sometimes when the summer day declined,
The whole scene was with golden fire diffused,

And I would sense the infinite beyond.
And yet not only then – for when a cold
Grey winter mist entwined my heart, the far
Horizon, indistinct, would be dissolved,

As at high tide river, sky completely merged
And only passing trains disturbed the peace.
Although I also found a different home,
I always treasured memories such as these

And vowed one day I would at last return.
By the grace of God I fulfilled this vow,
And though so many tides have ebbed and flowed,
This childhood scene is still as wondrous now.