skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Held Fast by Roses
Held fast by roses tangled, run amok
I think of Dad’s more military show
And me in yellow frock, hand-smocked by mum
Saddened by mush, where rosy scent should be
So, picking raspberries just before tea
I see her, younger still, that fifties girl
Cramming the lovely fruit, and pea rows too
Eye-height, just tall enough to lose her in
The guileless child lives in the hour, filling
Sweet memory’s store, potato treasure-trove
Unearthing. Digger, discoverer
Eating the peach to the rough-ribbed stone
10th June 2009, Hounoux, for Jude who cherishes childhood
Weeding for Mr Wordsworth
My bet is Wordworth never had to choose
Between The Prelude, polishing a verse
And ditto with the silverware
For Dorothy was ever there
And Mrs W did the chores
And kept away the tiresome bores
And Eliot though he measured spoons
Evenings, mornings, afternoons
Still when he heard the sweet lines forming
Despite mad Vivian's rage and storming
Put down the love song set to shock
With tea and toast, J A Prufrock
In my head the poems come and go
Echoes of Hopkins, T S and Co
No Porlock stranger snaps my thread
Just thoughts of weeds in strawberry bed
For though the garden lovesome grows
How soon the careful measured rows
Of bean and pea and such delights
Have lost the battle and the light
Whilst I, unminding, grope for rhyme
Careless of world enough and time
In my head the poems come and go
Echoes of Hopkins, T S and Co
And so it is for artist who
Loses herself as artists do
In oil on canvas, gone for days
Down the labyrinthine ways
Striving for colour, tone and line
Whilst others talk and sleep and dine So yes I'll choose creation's birthEcho of heaven heard on earthSweet wonder that keeps the stars apartDancing with angels, the poet's art
June 8th 2009 Hounoux, for Gill and for Susan
Gardeners’ World
Chocolate Cosmos, Moroccan Broom
Eleagnus, clove-scented Pinks
Honeysuckle and sweet Rocket
Fragrant catalogue thrown open
A perfume feast before our eyes
Drugging our senses on a Friday night
Then Islington Eden, sudden
Bursts upon the screen, such excess
Making us laugh out loud and cheer
The lovely gardener, smile so wide
Contagious, a technicolour
Poem, magical on a Friday night
5th June 2009, Hounoux
The Tortoise the Snail and Me
The vigorous trio smartly
Step it out, briskly through the fields
With Santiago shell to follow
And me, as foreseen, bringing up the rear
Wild orchids, look! are scattered here
And every shade from blue to purple
Countless nameless wildflowers bloom
Come on, I’ll help you, lagging in the rear
The sound of bells is coming near
Ha! here they are, the bleating flock
Stemming our onward march, we’re caught
In their tide, and no-one’s in the rear
This truly is the last ascent
You say, repeatedly, and laugh
See, Mirepoix is up ahead
And ever thus from childhood, in the rear
June 6th 2009,Hounoux, for Pam, who walks with me
Starbucks poem
Darting into Primark
Picking through the rails
Half a thought for bargains
Half for rich world greed
Here’s a cheery chugger
Care to save a life?
Quickly sign this paper
Gotta rush to Mac
Learn of make-up mystery
Concealed those aged cracks
Costs to save a face but
Difference made today?
Starbucks Brighton, February 25th 2009
Sugar Granny
Standing in the fudge shop
Warm and sweet
Back to childhood smell and taste
Mum at the stove stirring
Experimental balls dropped in water
Exact moment for beating, as
Crystals form and fudge crumbles
All my life at special times
Mum melted boiled and beat
Poured in a tray, set it to cool
Then marked the caramel squares
To pack in a tin, these for me
For sister, niece, for son, tokens of love
Standing in the fudge shop
In from the cold with Luca
I tell the Fudge man mum’s story
And hear the tears beneath my voice
I could never learn the trick I say
We let mum’s gift die with her
In the heady butter sweetness
Luca is asleep at last
My granny gift is peace for his mum
It’s only love and sugar
In whatever form it comes, so
Mix it pour it, share it, pass it on
February 2009, Brighton Wai kiki moo cow cafe. For my daughter Rosie
The Wild lies waiting
Along the jagged margins of our land
The Wild lies waiting, giant thistles
In the van, advancing over the hill
Silent on grandmother’s footsteps it creeps
Making a mock of all your toil
You turned your back whilst Spring rains fell and fell
No gardener there to tend the careful plot
And savage weeds will always win the fight
No contest where the tender seedlings grow
Though glorious poppies make us smile
A meadow’s high where orchard lawn was planned
On wildflower bank coarse grasses careless blow
Heedless of measured rows and grand design
How soon your work is overthrown, wilderness
Moving back in to claim her own
3rd June 2009, Hounoux, for Andy, the conscientious gardener.
