The new dawn

....and thus the daylight comes again
I never doubted that it would
The darkness of the night recedes
The dawn creeps in, and all is good.
Today we will be bathed in light
and even though it cloudy be
light will prevail, at least enough
for us the distant features see.
What only in imagination
in the darkness we have dreamed
we now discern, but with our eyes
and all is not quite as it seemed
reality the picture paints
fear, with the darkness fades away
for what we see can now be touched
and truth begins another day.



 © Rob King 2012

Early memories

This is one of my early memories, when my Uncle took me fishing for the first time.


Fishing
Was I four, or five, or six
when Uncle Bob first took me fishing?
down upon the tannery steps,
an alley off the market place
Damp dark morning, rain-drops hissing
on the river’s oily surface
black and swirling, gloomy, brooding
almost brutal, without grace.
I remember being frightened
by the unfamiliar sounds
How I wished that we were fishing
on the far bank’s open ground.
Barges moored there bump and jostle
Leviathans of black steel plate
With creaking voices they rub shoulders
grunting, groaning, misery-moaning
stretching chains that grind and grate.
There were high walls built of red-brick
reaching up on either side
four floors tall, the shops and factory
cave-like alley, eight feet wide
My fishing rod was three feet long
a little taller then than I.
made of stiff wire, wooden handled.
to me it reached right to the sky.
The reel was just a tiny bobbin,
with little bobble float and hook,
and if a fish had seen my maggot,
it wouldn’t take a second look.
I remember stench of leather
from the factory long since gone
just the thought will bring it back now
Ah! But sixty years have flown.
Kingston’s changed now
Gone the coal-yard, tannery, wood-yard
barges, cranes
and all the closed-in, dark, damp alleys
gone for ever, naught remains
Uncle Bob, (who was a postman)
last fished forty years ago
taken early by The Reaper,
heart attack, poor so-and-so.
And thus, it’s only in my memory
that this vignette still replays
unless I put the pen to paper
write about this, my first caper
Times of happy, scary days.


 © Rob King 2012

One wet autumn night.

The sticky tapping chitter chatting
raindrops splatting on the glass

The leaves beyond Wisteria frond
and shallow pond  upon the path 

The black night framed within the window
sucking light without the room

The soul inside determined bide
refuse to ride into the gloom.

The warm moist air beyond the stair
calls body down to guard the fire

The cracking log upon the dog
glowing, fills heart with desire

Would winter come and winter go
and leave my weary soul forlorn?

I know not, care not even dare not
be aware, not 'til the dawn.

Autumn again

All too soon
the Summer sheds her gown of green
and dons her cloak of rust
impatient to be moving on
and filled with next years lust
No sooner fitted and attired
she throws her garment down
upon the floor, and naked stands
and lets it turn to brown.
November mist will hide her shame
though sullen sun expose her
and shivering through the winter months
the white flakes cling and clothe her
The winds of March blow fresh thoughts in
and waken her from sleeping
and thread by thread, the green appears
and sets her heart a-leaping
and none too soon
She's gaily dressed
and all the world is smiling
her warmth and colour fill our souls,
Her prettiness beguiling.



© Rob King 2012

Onset of Autumn

-

Onset of Autumn

The low grey morning cloud
in the wake of the cold night rain
scuds swiftly from the windward,
attempting to suck the light
from the growing day.
The half-clothed Poplars
rustle flimsy petticoats
in protest, attempting to halt
the clouds progress
but they are relentless
in their drive toward
the North-East, their sights set
on the cold North Sea,
Scandinavia, and beyond.
Little know they
that their progress will be checked
by Earth's rotational forces,
and their heads will be turned
like some wild-eyed
driving-horses
reined in from bolting, having spooked
in the dark wet night.

Drawn back toward the land, they tire
and give up the fight for flight,
and with the sun on their backs
they meekly evaporate
into.....
thin.....
air.



 ©Rob King 2012

Starting My Day

Opening the back door, I stepped out into the cool September morning air. With the

first draught of fresh air filling my lungs, I revelled in its intoxicating flavour, and

helped myself to another lungful for good measure.

Mounting the four brick steps up to garden level, I noted that the paving slabs were dry this morning, although there was a heavy dew on the slightly unkempt mossy lawn, and the cobwebs that laced the teasel heads together were hung with tiny crystal droplets like a fine diamond necklace designed by and for Mother Nature herself, the weight of the droplets pulling the long threads downward in a perfect catenary curve, one of natures mathematical wonders.

Bright Phoebe was already climbing heavenward on the rungs of her invisible arched

ladder and had dispelled the early morning mist that there obviously had been, and was now glimmering through the leaves of the Ash tree at the end of the garden, causing a flickering dappled light to play across most of the garden, which, coupled with the absolute clarity of the air now, gave one the feeling that all was well with this day.

 A light breeze raised the hair on my uncovered legs, for I was still in my dressing

gown, and I felt as if a ghostly cat had just brushed past me on it's way into the house

for food. I shivered lightly, a just reaction to that feeling, but thought little more

about it.

Taking a sip from my coffee mug, my thoughts turned inward to reflect on what this

day might bring; what good fortune the Universe would provide for me, for it was all

there for the asking; all there to be enjoyed.

Setting my coffee mug on the mesh-topped patio table, I looked up, and my breath was stolen by the formation of clouds that was stretched thin across the sky. The mares' tails looked like dry white brush strokes dashed in straight lines but with a wind-blown curl at the eastern end. The washed out vapour trails told of a multiplicity of journeys passing over this country. Off to the North, a patch of Mackerel sky added another texture to the painting. I slowly turned full circle, taking in the heavenly sight that this pristine morning presented to me; the delicate white lace on cyan background stretched high above me, and as far as the eye could see.

I was truly grateful that I lived in open country, where no tall buildings could hem me in, for it is then, without nature’s constant reminders, that one can become forgetful of the truth of life, and become completely embroiled in the culture of Self, with it’s adherents - loneliness, and discontent.

Turning round once more, I took in everything that I could see, slowly absorbing every colour, and every shade of every colour, from the multitude of greens that gave each of the trees their own identity, to the misplaced earthy terra-cotta of the pantiled roof, each tile of which had its own patch of discolouration from the dust and soot that the rains had washed down the rounded valleys of the vertical rows.

The flower gardens were now past their best, with only the stragglers of the late perennials still in bloom, but it had been a magnificent show, considering the extremes of weather that we had experienced this year; very warm very early in the year, then the wettest second quarter on record. Haymaking was difficult, to say the least, and lucky was the farmer who got some good grass in store. Then the harvest weather had been dismal to begin with, brightening later, but by that time, the crops were in very poor heart, with the grains empty and shrivelled.

The fruit trees around the garden were very variable in crop, as there were a couple of wicked air-frosts around blossoming time. Only the later blossoming trees bore fruit, and that in abundance, Cox and Russet apples a-plenty, but pears, plums, gages, none; but the peach, the heavenly peach,  against the Southern workshop wall held out against the frost, and produced half its normal crop, but still plenty of juice to dribble down my chin.

The Wisteria, which graced the Southern and Eastern walls of the house, took the frost very badly, and the flower buds, which were on the point of opening, turned to rotten pulp and dropped off, allowing me to think that she would not survive another year, but nature having her own mind, gave her a second petticoat of flowers in the late Summer; not the usual magnificent show of pendulous pale blue blooms, for by now, there was a very heavy growth of leaves, which wouldn’t normally be there at flowering time, and the blooms had to fight their way out of the foliage.  This was the chosen home for a second clutch of Blackbird’s eggs, the products of which were now scuttling around the garden, turning leaves and wood-chips in their hunt for food.

Breathing a sigh that belied the smile on my face, and quietly thanking the Universe, I turned back, picked up my mug, and took the steps down to the house, where I would prepare myself for the day ahead.

 © Rob King 06-09-2012

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.

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.

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

Mosses

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