Leaves

These dried leaves,

Golden and brown and red,

Scattered on the parklands,

And on the grimacing street;

That whisper and rustle and spell

A Future, a mystery tell:

Sweep them away, these dry leaves!

On the wind they whisk,

In a detour frisk,

They group and trouble together:

They whirl and they frolic,

In circles magic,

Like witches about some bother.

Gather them up, they seem to steal

On today, like horrors long forgotten!

The dried leaves of years, and rustling fears,

And tears that make bright hues sodden.

Where the laugh and the shout,

The tints bright and clear?

Instead, flight and rout,

Rowan and seer:

Gather them up in armfuls, these dead leaves,

That once in the bud were so dear!

Gather them up: the gardener is building

A pyre to consume these multi tree-children,

These light ones, green suited,

These gay galloping princes,

Charioteers of the springtime,

Unsaddled by autumn lances.

Gather them up!

Then close press to your bosom,

Ever so tightly, each winsome frail phantom.

Inevitable

My hushed, professional calm stills your room;

Desists the fluorescent clamour

Outside your door.

Belies the constant nag of phones and bell requests.

'Your' light is dimmed and dimming still,

As time beyond ticks on at frantic pace.

You don't know I'm here,

Besides your bed; regulation, crisply made.

I barely got to know you,

Yet here I am to hold your frail, pallid hand;

Token comfort towards the inevitable.

Peacefully calm in your repose.

Your face at rest calms me,

Conceals my 'not supposed to be' fear

At your passing - 

I squeeze your hand with gentlest touch

You'll soon be free from contorted pain

You'll soon be free - rest now!

One of mine

 A bit of an experiment... one of my own pieces ...

'Me Time'

I need some 'Me Time'; no specific reason,

Whilst trudging aimlessly through crowded store

I conclude that 'trudging' could be better spent.

Facing the 'Wrekin' - Giant hurled mound

So folklore would have us believe;

I walk through Keatsonian mist, now clearing.

Marching on through muddied leaf litter;

In footwear far inappropriate

I take in gulps of revitalising air!

Pine trees needling my nostrils

Damp oaky mulch underfoot.

To my right the ribboning 'M-way'.

To left the Buildwas Powerhouse;

Giants' egg-cups of my infancy.

I survey the wondrous panorama.

'Me time' has been achieved!

Driving homeward bound through woolly studded hills;

I check the gauge . . . and need re-fuelling!

Escape

This made me think of our social media escape route - now in the 21stC   - I wonder what Grandad would have thought ?

Why all this hunting for entertainment,

In theatres cramming, in novels dipping?

Why all this lust for hectic excitement,

Newspapers chewing, at races gambling?

I know it's a dire sign of the time,

And folk are aflame to stake on a chance

That might ease ever so little the rack and the pine,

And by basking in fiction the real world escape.

But dare not to look on the street about you,

Around, below, aghast to above,

Are hope and despair, Earth's grand creatures a-mildew;

The comic and tragic of perennial love.

Avaunt! Avaunt! The foeted hall.

Away! Away! The novelette.

Man is horse mettlesome chained in stall,

With powers stupendous - left to rot.

Autumn

Autumn spills a chilly blast

Out the tankard of the morning:

Bee and Man prepare for fast

That Winter threats, by vigorous storing:

Hoard they honey, flesh and fruit,

Edible Good, whatever suit;

Autumn spill your chilly blast,

The garnered store will warmth recruit!

Autumn sails before the mast:

Autumn viking his wild-blown locks;

Deep their nets the fishermen cast,

Heap they high the silvery stocks.

Swarthy arms the ripe-grain mow;

Whirl and eddy the tanned chaff blow.

Winnow grain! Spoil amass!

Like fresh red apples young cheeks aglow!

With sweetness bulge and juicy fall

Plums purple yellow, pears huge brown - flecked:

Yesterday's blossom is beyond recall,

With cherry earrings present Beauty deck:

Chrysanthemum blooms the lilies replace;

December rose will bud apace:

Like puppy unleashed the wind is in chase

Of springtime adornments, it leaps, scampers, pants:

Press out the cider! Fruition never recants.

A brambling we shall go!

One or two of you may have noticed my seemingly obsessive referrals to all things olfactory; evocative smells are key in my childhood memories.  Not least the smell of blackcurrant jam; the first smell of blackcurrant jam when that lid is 'popped' off a brand new jar. To be precise; the jam that sat on the breakfast table at Grandad's in Arnside. "Tiptree Blackcurrant Jam" on crusty white bread! I loved that jam so much; I even forgave the narky pips that would frequently wedge them selves between a tooth or too.

Blackcurrant Jam

It was around Arnside and surrounding areas that I would have first picked and eaten the freshly foraged delights from the local lanes; blackberries mainly and once wild raspberries. I remember picking the soft fruits, bursting their vivid staining juice over my fingers, before popping the newly picked fruit into my mouth. Possibly a tad tart and often that jammy sweetness, but always a single thrill that I'd picked it first and tasted it first!! Now to gather enough fruit without damaging it in the bag provided for such gathering.Oddly, despite getting scratched by the brambles; defending their fruity treasures, I loved picking blackberries and still do. I think that they would have been made into a crumble, if sufficient or merely enjoyed with ice cream, 'if' they made it back that far without been eaten on the way home!

To Mamie (My Dear Wife), 1943

We shall go together! Journey together!
And time and tide shall know our course is one ordained.
The clouds - white on the hills - and the purple dreaming heather
Shall pledge one ode for us like their spirit inseparable and unchained.

The swan on their spring flight feel deep peace on their spread wings,
And build among the rush their morrow unborn:
"Together yet together!" the chaffinch sings:

"Together yet together!" the grasses croon,

Touched by the wandering fingers of the morn.

Even while the world its pale hope crucifies,

Spurting from iron lungs a molten death,

Amid the pain and terror a hallowed breath

Shall pervade us twain and heal heart of its sighs.

For Ocean owns not a Vesuvius master,

Nor shall Earthquake distort the oakwood's grain:

The baffled Soul staggering to blind disaster,

Shall yet look up and see its truth again.

Twain minds enfibred of mutual thoughts unspoken,

Unto one cycle of being are beholden,

To burgeon each with each to their full grace.

Each to its shore through dark ways and through golden,

Revealing unto each Love's inalienable place.