Monday, 16 July 2012

The Weybourne cliffs

The Weybourne Cliffs

Walking on the Webburn cliffs,
on a clear bright July morning
so much to be seen
in the plant-life on the tops
the summer having been so wet
the wild flowers all were blooming
together, not in sequence
for the prettiest picture yet.

The larks were singing Glories
as they rose into the cyan air
their vertical ascent distracting
raiders from their nests
they were likened unto angels
not white, but brown, and miniature
and filled with Hallelujas that came
tumbling from their breasts.

Looking from the cliff-top
out to sea, beyond the pebbles
the bobbing of the marker buoys
told tales of crab-pot lines
their coloured flags were waving 
briskly on the rolling waters
like some celebrating seals
at Coronation party time.

The sky was vivid blue
and that self-same regal hue
was reflected on the waters,
normally sandy brown and dull
and if a cloud should intervene
the colour changed from blue to green
but there was nothing in that morning that
could cause the soul to lull.

Walking inland from the shore line
cross the railway 'long by Scots pine
eating chocolate on a bench
then stepping back into the sun
heard the steam train's whistle rent the air
and watched it chuntering along
A July day enjoyed, and then
remembered when it's done.

Saturday, 14 July 2012

Where to, Guv?

Where to, guv?

In spite of analytical thought
the heart desires a difference,
the tossing of a coin or maybe
leaving things to chance,
for in thinking, there's no flavour
of the unknown life to savour
and the pattern of the timetable
has no feeling for romance.
We define our lives by fences
that shut in all our senses
and don't allow the passing thought
to gather any strength
so we suffer mental atrophy
resulting in disharmony,
and spiritual dysfunction
we must avoid at any length.
We must learn that risk is certain
to draw back every curtain
and relieve us of monotony
that stultifies our mind
so go where your heart takes you
rather than where your mind makes you
go, and Universe will see to it
that wonder you will find.

Friday, 6 July 2012

Oh look! It's raining!

The rain falls perpendicular
the wind is very light
so it will just keep falling
as it has done all the night
The loke* is like a river
the surface washed away
but on the bright side
dust will not be
blown about today
The garden won't need watering
but I'm not pleased somehow
for the vegetables need mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation now.
I hope my mother Blackbird
who's sitting on her nest
can keep her baby chicks from harm
for wet weather they're not dressed.
The harvest will be late this year
We really need some sun
and of course there's peoples holidays
they'll not be having fun.
so aren't we really lucky
that in this steady stream
that despite the cold and soaking wet
we can close our eyes and dream.

*loke = lane in Norfolkese

Tuesday, 3 July 2012


Looking through the window at the mosses on the ridgetiles 
on the rooftop of the workshop where I earn my daily bread
I see them cling precarious, coloured various, quite gregarious
with persistance for existence and resistance, never dead
They hang tightly to the cement in between the half-round clay-pots
gaining foothold from the roughness that the gritty sand provides
and if a piece should tumble off dislodged by clumsy pigeons
down the terracotta pantiles to the troughing then it slides.
A heavy rain will float it like a boat toward the downspout
where it drops down to the bottom, getting stuck there on the sides
and if another lump of moss should follow in its footsteps
then they'll both get tightly jammed there and a blockage it provides
and so, in heavy weather gear, I'll be having to dismantle it,
'cause water's overflowing and its running down the walls.
and I'm feeling unappealing, my blood pressure's hit the ceiling
'cause the water's running down my neck like Niagara-bloody-Falls

Monday, 2 July 2012



The rain against my window beats
but I shall not be broken
for since I found out who I am
my spirit has awoken
there's nothing now can hold me back
for I am in control
my happiness is up to me
I own my very soul.
I have no deity to fear
nor hellish fire to flee
for I am part of everything
and all is part of me.
I now accept that everything
has bad and good together
and how you see it's up to you
just like this English weather
So when the rain is falling hard
I will not be downcast
I know the sun will shine again
when this wet weather's passed
and in the meantime I'll just think
on all the good it's doing
replenishing our aquifers
and saving us from ruin
for without water we won't be here
life would not exist
and I would not be writing this
- think what you might have missed ;0)

Sunday, 1 July 2012

Oh, how I miss my sense of smell               
I never realised quite how much
it contributed to my life
along with sight, sound, taste, and touch.
I took for granted those aromas
wafting past my nose each day
that gilded all the other senses
completed them in such a way
that memory could quickly draw on
if that scent should reappear
and conjure up the complete picture,
whether it was foul or dear.
The strange thing is, I can't recall
exactly how a smell should be.
I know the scent of fresh cut grass
but the memory is eluding me.
So many things now I can't savour
far too numerous to list
a few have changed, but most are missing    
they've said farewell, but never kissed.

Today I walked the local lanes
the verge and hedgerow in full bloom
with meadowsweet and honey suckle,
dog-rose, poppy, privet, broom.
All these flowers heaven-scented
this I know from years before.
but it fills my heart with sadness
I can't smell them any more.
So now, I look, and look much deeper
than I would in times now gone
colours more intense, and brighter,
my retinae alight upon.
I've heard it said that loss of one sense
often would the brain provoke
to hone the other senses keener,
give them all a lusty poke.

It seems it's true, for all this Spring                
I've noticed that my ageing sight
has taken on a bold new palette
painted life with colours bright.
I stand astonished at the visions
that every day assail my eyes
with shades of green that number thousands
and endless white-puffed, cyan skies.