Staple Island - the Farnes

Dorset Coast

Coastal path

Yesterday there was a pilgrimage

From Golden Cap to Lyme: we missed it.

We walked the route anyway, puffing 

Up hills, loving the summits, treading

Carefully down, striding the flat and

Counting flowers- 33 species,

But always watching the silver sea.

God was not forgotten, he was there

In every glance and pause for wonder.

  

Brilliance
Night was falling fast
The cliffs were looming
Dark, when suddenly
One section glowed warm
Orange: the lost sun's
Dying rays brought glory.
For a few moments
It transcended all.

St Gabriel's Chapel

An outline of what was, once, remains:

Four stubby walls, open to the sky

A Gothic doorway, with cows beyond.

There's little for the imagination: 

A small church whose congregation 

Are long unremembered. Only faith

Finds God here now, but old prayers

- and new- keep the space holy.

Charmouth

The sea is petulant tonight:

Crashing and bashing the beach

Trying to claw back attention

From 'eyes down' fossil hunters.

Their attention is not on tides

But transfixed on the lump of rock

Which might produce treasure. The chip,

Chip of hammer on stone rivals

The waves, counterpointing its smacks

And slow withdrawal over shale.

Their thrust is to find, hold and have

Proof of millions of years old, life.

The sea is irrelevant to them.

'Don't climb: unsafe cliffs'.

Two prats ignore signs, get stuck,

The life boat is called.

Week 6

Syria 2010 near Idlib

Idlib Syria

We take breathing air, fresh air, for granted.
We live, talk, sing, blow up balloons
Without regard for this life force,
Until it's lost, polluted, replaced.

What corrupt mind chose to release
Poisoned gas into the Idlib air?
From sleep the innocent inhale,
choke, gasp for breath which isn't there.

Post the First World War, it was banned
No one should die that way: yet it's picked -
The weapon to kill, cause agony
And bring death to one’s own people.

What end has it served? Yet one more
Horror in a muddled civil war:
choking death to people who once
gave us shelter in time of need.

(We were trapped in Syria in 2010 when the ash cloud from an Icelandic

Volcano grounded all planes.)

Lent week 5

The vibrant burnt umber orange

Of the Skipper's photo was gone,

'De-saturation' had taken place:

The greys of the result were dull.

Hopes lost, disappointment, let down

Are colourless too; vivid ideas

Become trampled, muddy and

To 're-saturate' in need of will.

Will power can grow flabby.

March 29th

Brussels

Brexit starts today;

The trigger letter given:

Trade rebirth begins?

                                                                        

                                                                                   Butterflies

Revelling in the warmth of the day

A holly blue plays the air waves,

Never landing but just dancing

Tantalisingly in and out of sight.

Hours later, Madame Butterfly

With her kimono 'wings' and grace

Sings her love for a man whose flown.

She is trapped in her love anguish

Pinned down by misery til death

Let's her go: like the holly blue

She finds joy in liberation.

Lent week 4

Example?

Outside our window a robin 

Sings, then it's time to forage: 

Diligently, relentlessly, he 

Seeks, finds, carries back to his bush

By the door, his flower bed treasures,

Old grass, dead stems, mini twigs

All in service to his nest.

Purpose drives him ever on wards

His song is of satisfaction.

                                                                     

                                                     Where next?

The sign post where I'm standing

Is rubbed out, weathered by years.

Its fingers point to ' road-closed',

A brand new highway and two paths,

Muddy, unclear with few prospects.

Which way to proceed?

I may be here a while

Waiting for God's hand

To point the right way.

In time to come perhaps I will

Look back and to this pilgrim marker, 

And know the choice was right.

Thursday March 23^rd

 Westminster

Impulse or planned?

Madman or terrorist?

Seeking death and glory

Or muddled, twisted and sick?

Death stained Westminster yesterday,

Like Brussels, Nice, Paris, Madrid.

We hear about it, watch dumb

With horror and wonder what contorted

Narrative played in his head.

Was he free thinking or programmed

By puppet masters who have not 

Yet learned that humanity and 

Compassion  are stronger than hate?

March

Gardens are yellow in March:

Crocus first, starry celandine

Follow until the superstars, Daffodils, 

In their glorious assemblies, 

Raise their trumpets and holla

'Look at us'. Dandelions, lower

Down continue to multiply!

Meanwhile, hiding on the gentle

Primrose with its soft tones blending

A Brimstone feeds; the true

Herald of Spring has arrived.

  

Lent week 3

Their inscrutable gaze

Pierces us with prehistoric questions.

When?

Trace the coils of an ammonite

From its outward swirl to centre

flourish; the gradual steps are like

trying to make a decision. The 

dips are the maze and murk until

a ridge is reached. Phew, firmer ground.

Moving closer to the core the

process goes on til suddenly

Certainty blazes into being.

The turning has stilled, and

exhausted, the mind has found rest.

Lent Week 3

Stretching over hills,

Trees march in formation 

Dripping olive riches.

Must
I must write to...
I must arrange...
I must tidy up,
Wash up, revise, sort
Garden, now the sun is bright.
This work ethic is unbalanced:
Why is sitting and 'being' so difficult?
I must add to my list, 'Be Still'.

Misinformation

Tightly contained in a chrysalis 
Miraculous changes take place,
Transforming a tubby caterpillar
Into a delicate butterfly.
But suppose the procedure
Was reversed, changed back,
Beauty pushed back into mess?
We are in such times
Truth has failed to hold
Morality is being submerged,
Sinking in the quick sands
Of today's 'Post Truth'.
The beast has been born.

Lent Week 2

Cordoba

Steps make good seats to
text, read or dream; only
the casual passer by 
might stop and note the
glorious clash of Time:
An ancient Moorish doorway
Becomes a frame for the
Modern mundane time of peace.

Live Feed from the National Theatre

The theatre's a buzz;

We are watching them,

The audience thrill in waiting,

In the cinema, we're quieter

Still excited, as the lights dim.

All rustle to stillness

Ready to share the magic:

Borrowing emotions 

as if they were ours,

Theatre and cinema in unison.

Enthralled they laugh, we don't,

Worse, they watch, we don't

As transmission brakes. A

Blank screen breaks the spell,

We sigh, the film resumes shortly,

We strive to re- find enchantment. 

March 10th

Petals in the mud,

Owls seen in headlights,

Ideas breaking through muddle.

March 11th

Be a living stone

Bring life where there is deadness

Help the starved to eat.