Woodland Scene

Why is the roof of this old shack painted. Is it a hope that something old can made new again?

Against the dark, lifeless woodland

An old shack stands.

Camouflaged against the winter greys of bark

From which it came.

It would seem invisible,

But for the azure sky that gives it form

Against a landscape, dead

And in repose.

All is old and done,

Weary of the growing and of the standing.

The once green grass, bleached white by winter,

Whispers mournfully - the ghost is given up.

Lying against the darkened breast for final comfort

At its parent’s end,

The shack belies the power of winter’s killing-breath.

The crimson roof, new-painted,

Starker than all the colours in the wood, the earth, the sky,

Declares redemption -

The old shall become new,

The mortal shall put on immortality.

One Hour Friend

I take many rail journeys and love to observe people. This poem is a reflection on an old man reading a book...it may even be self-reflection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 I don’t want to get lost in books,

In the imaginary world of other lives,
Nodding my head on the pm train
Pretending I am interested
Intellectual
A patron of the Arts.
I don’t want to look lonely,
Living my life through fictional characters,
Displaying to you that I am clever,
But I’m not!
Just bored,
My own life a fiction.
I read because Radio 4 said I should.

 

I need to keep up you know.
Be one of the crowd,
Talking with banal intelligence at the party.
Almost saying I know the author,
But I don’t.
I’m just a lonely old codger on a train,
Saying to you by the holding up of the cover page,
I am lonely and I am old…
Please talk to me.
Ask me what the book is about,
And I will tell you all my life,
My family
My travels
My work and has-been years.
I’ll appreciate the attention,
The moment’s friendship.
Then when you’re gone,
I’ll hold the cover page up again
And find another one hour friend.http://www.amazon.co.uk/North-East-Eden-Tranquility-Darkling/dp/1470109565/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1374222010&sr=1-1&keywords=north+east+in+eden

Mocking Shades

Sitting in fading summer light,

I watch shadows slide down greying walls,

The off-casts of West’s ending day.

Or are they the shadows of an old nostalgia?

Shady memories of youthful days

And forever promises?

Spent loves haunting some gloaming’s light?

High expectations?

Untamed joy

Now reflected in half-lit corners and

The Li li li’s of Garfunkle and his friend?

Drinking the heavy brew that time has soured,

Lost love mocks me through the dimming rooms.

North East in Eden

At the borders where North meets West and East,

Hillsides slide into northern flatlands

Exhaling ravishment.

Seduced with levity,

I forget darker scenes -

Ulster’s hillsides,

Sucking life to premature death;

Black despair,

Tearing reason’s staff

From its once solid ground.

A twisted mind

Tortured by deaths,

Hate’s rhetoric,

The stench of corrupting goodness

Rising from rivers of unworthy termination,

Now seeks the meandering streams of memory -

Sticklebacks skimming in idle becks,

Pond Skaters on quiet pools,

Swallows darting,

Chirruping cheerful summers,

Curlews crying in a plaintiff strain - Stay.

Larks raising me to past joys,

Butterflies drawing me down their fluttering path

Where the Damselfly hovers

Over my safe earth,

My tranquil lake,

Where Reed Mace whispers peace.

Opened by desiccating sun,

Crazed earth

Echoes my shattered mind.

Cracked by bigoted intolerance,

The rantings of the right

Their hostility ringing round half-forgotten Ulster hills.

  

Now,

Surrounded by the scented air

And ripening Barley fumes,

Hogwort raises her mature head,

Acknowledging the fertile sun

Settling on her bed of hungry children.

Slumbering poppies wave at me

Without addictive platitudes

That promise vapid dreams of paradise

And forever.

Northward, dark woodland

Whispers serenity.

Her dark, garlic-scented sweetness

Drawing death’s bitter pus,

Purging it.

I had left for hillocks of the dead,

Where those who breathed tomorrow

Lie in unquiet rest…

Exterminated innocence.

From landscapes of mourning,

She called me home.

Cypress, tall and motionless,

Breathe the perfumed exhalations.

Moon rising

Streaks the Barley heads with mellow glow.

Peace here.

Green fields without the staining of lost life,

Pure rivers,

Not red,

Like the raging torrents of the dead.

Mind flees to boyhood earth

Where eternal orbs illuminate the

Cooling Towers at Selby.

I am returned to Eden,

Inhaling her tomorrows.