Inspirations

04-P1020627Yellow lifts my spirit what colour does that for you? Time to think about planting seeds will it be flowers, veg? Beans come in a wide variety of colours!

What is your earliest memory of a garden?

Who was there?.

Why was it your favourtie?

What was the most memorable feature?

Sight, sounds. smells. Do share how you got on!

 

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India

The heat sucked life out of her body
her skin felt strangely numb
heartbeat quickening
lungs full of heavy heat.

Eyes strain
a desperate need to keep focused
as her whole body succumbed to fatigue.

So this is India.
Can death be this simple?

Lost in the mountains, our voices call out
The sky is dark, lit by a million stars.
We cease to care if anyone finds us.

On the Ganges,
boats made of banana leaves,
with tiny tea lights
bounce on the waves.
Taking the souls of loved ones
to a secret destination.

The Northern Line

Watery blue pools of eyes
shone with childlike intensity.
A woollen hat, with knitted brim
ensured a certain dignity.
Trousers secured with knotted tie,
but shoes polished to perfection!
A simple backdrop
to life’s little drama.

Bony hands brushed his beard,
recalling the caress
of a past love?

In the train,
he leaned across the seats,
about to lie between them.
Instead, he raised his lager
as a young woman entered.
A silent salute,
born of better days!

Much later in my soft warm bed
I think of him
journeying to and fro
into the night.
Those watery blue eyes denying
me sleep.

Eating Apricots in France

for Jean and Mado

Under the sun umbrella
on the terrace
old friends meet.

Watching the mist on mountains
listening to the call of the cowman
urging his herd to milking.

Eating apricots, sipping wine,
a gentle informality,
born of shared memories.

I wish

Poem for children – Carol Ann Duffy said children will love it  – will they ever see it?

My dad works in the circus
And when we go to school
He shows me lots of circus tricks,
He likes to play the fool.

Miss Chivers showed him round one day,
He cartwheeled in the gym
And swung on ropes above our heads
So we all laughed at him.

Mr Potts was cleaning windows
When dad was going round,
He put a bucket on his head
Two metres from the ground.

He juggled in the classroom
With books and balls and rings
And balanced boxes on his nose
And other clever things.

Mrs Pie was in the kitchen
Dad loves to help with flour.
He made some lovely custard pies.
Which passed a pleasant hour.

Miss Chivers said “It’s time to go”
But dad was having fun
So he strung us up a tightrope,
We practised one by one.

But now we have to do our work
So dad will have to go,
Will he listen? Not my dad,
He’s swinging to and fro.

 

Beachcombing

Where a solitary seagull flew,
hopeful of an unexpected catch,
an old man moved along
the deserted seashore,
glancing skywards,
as if to ward off new invaders.

He kept his gaze low,
pausing then pouncing,
hands sifting piles of slippery pebbles,
“Makes a good walk” he called,
digging to retrieve his bounty –
two battered 20p coins.

“Like poetry?”
he called, I nodded,
so with one hand cupped
to the side of his mouth,
warding off competition
from the roar of the wind
on the incoming tide,
he launched into a sonnet.

His words swooped, soared,
glided past present reality
and far out to sea,
I clapped respectfully
as he continued to work the beach
as a showman might,
reaping his due rewards for such
a powerful performance.