poetdoesarun
On the Jurassic coast, Where once ammonites swam, canines are king. On collar and lead They strut and they sniff. Pugs, pulis, poodles, A labradoodle and shih tzu but very few mutts. King of the dog walk, with white tipped tail wagging, pad spaniel-like paws. A unique species is Bramblesaurus.
Isle of Wight 2020 – dinosaur footprints and dog walks.
The ground has shifted and what I thought was firm and solid has turned to sand. Trust in the news, the government and in the experts has been washed away and what is left is uncertainty and fear.
When the ground shifted, I was jolted and the confidence in who I am, was picked off, leaving me feeling exposed and lost. What I thought was important and defining, I now consider a burden that drags me down. It is too heavy, huge, overwhelming so my only thoughts are how and when can I let go and find peace and purpose again.
The ground shifted when “zoom” replaced face to face encounters. How can I sit and see myself, exposed and vulnerable, scrabbling around for words and seeing all along that I have been an imposter. Face to face, pen to paper, speaking and listening were lost as the ground shifted.
Is it any wonder then that I have returned to solid ground, the assurance of being accepted by my family who expect nothing but love. The comfort of knowing I am loved for who I am, not for what I do, is the firm ground under the shifting sands of this year.
And that brings me to the matter of my faith which for a year has been battered and bruised by bereavement, exhaustion, fear, pandemic and mistrust. Under it all is the firm solid ground laid down in my infancy. The familiar words of hymns and prayers, the comforting sacrament of forgiveness and the mystery of communion with God through bread and wine.
I am standing on the solid ground of faith and of being loved and it would be easy to stay on this island I have rediscovered; stay and retreat from the world of shifting certainties and believeable lies.
But God, who is my firm foundation calls me to love him and others, as I have learnt to love myself. He never said life with him would be easy, but rather take up a cross and follow him.
So I stand on His piece of solid ground, looking into an uncertain future, poised and ready to step where ever he calls.
Enjoying the summer weather Let's all come together We'll marvel at seed germination With grit and determination. Refilling the dry birdbath We're walking a critical path We'll get a bumper crop As we've pulled out all the stops. Having picked out the weak We are now past the peak
She waits, alert and patient, Waiting for she knows not what. But when it comes, she's up... Eager for food, a walk, recognition.
Her head low, her body long, She rests and waits until... Ears twitch, head lifts and She peers under long eyebrows.
She waits. Does she ruminate on yesterday? Is she considering tomorrow? She is waiting; waiting for the day.
I reach across and stroke her silky fur. I nuzzle her neck and caress her ears. She pleads me with her eyes, Then lowers her head and waits.
Another day and my eyes are drawn to the mountains, rugged, Alpine peaks, rock exposed and permanent. I search among the forest of evergreens and then to the mountain again where the path disappears into mist.
I lay still, shallow breaths and stare at the painting hung on the wall…a window on another place and probably another time when everything was perfect and I was managing.
Why are my eyes drawn to the mountains? Is my help found there? If I search among the rocks and crevices will I get the answer to the puzzle that has become my life? When my eyes follow the pathway that disappears into the trees, will I get back to how I was?
No! Laying inert and searching among the hills will not help. My help comes from getting up and putting back the curtain to reveal a beautiful, if somewhat unruly garden where I feel, inhale and see again the divine, the explainable wonder of creation, growth and abundance. It is where I look forward to the changing seasons, the die-back and decay of leaves and my favourite, the perennials, that appear each year, fresh and hopeful.
So when I sit at my desk and find my eyes drawn to the view outside the window and sit with pen poised and ready, my thoughts invariably turn to God who has been my rock, my permanence, my sure foundation.
Why look to the hills when he is with me all the time? He listens and when he speaks it is always what I need to hear, whether it be words of comfort or reproach. When did I stop looking to him and stare into the hills instead?
My resilience comes from the Lord Who made heaven and earth. He will not make me stumble or fall Instead he will lift me and carry me Through the valleys and climb with me To the mountain top. I can live freely with Him who lays no burden That is too heavy to carry. For His grace is unforced; given not earned. He calls, we respond, And when the load is too much, He whispers, "Come to me."
Early on the longest day, we run past Waist high green wheat and yellow barley, While lambs to slaughter, gone, and Wild grasses, mowed and baled. A skylark's song and sparrowhawk's cry The only sounds in the early morning heat. Peacock, Red Admiral and Gate-keeper, Iridescent mayfly and black winged dragonfly Arise and dance ahead of us, And all the while the river Meanders on. It's seen it all; Farms, meadows, mill races and lakes, Solar panels flashing in the sunlight, An abandoned prison with razor wire fence And over it all, the immense blue sky And around it all, the seasons change.
Creation called me to worship this fine April morning with the clouds scudding And the sky patched and sun-spotted. This valley still surprises me and lifts my soul; For the blackthorn is white with fine blossom And the black-legged, black-eared ewes, long suffering and nervous, As my two mutts mooch then tug on their leads. Nettles and hogweed, dock leaves and fireweed Prepare to impede the path. This valley, with its river and mill rushes, Man-made lakes and commuter highway, Is bursting with life. (April run, Wellingborough to Earls Barton, along the Nene Way. 2015)
an alphabet in the Nene Valley
Buzzards soar, cuckoos call Egret, geese and goslings. Herons stand, kites search Swifts, swans and signets While over all the skylarks sing.
Bridges span, canoes drift, Cycles, ramblers and dogs. Gravel taken, lakes filled Locks, mill race and weirs While through it all the river meanders.
Badby rises, Barnwell mill Cogenhoe, Everdon and Flore. Islip's spire, Oundle's school Woodford, Weedon and Yarwell While in each place, a church proclaims.
Beneath the soles of trainers and boots, Under the rubber tyres and padded paws, The sand and gravel, stone and dust Is pressed and beaten, levelled flat. A walker's highway, a circuit for runners Where the beeps of fitbits join the mix Of blue tits and warblers and LBJs, And a returning cuckoo announces Spring.
Beneath the path, lie coal dust and cinder, Long rusted nails and chunks of wood, Where the iron rails lay and engines steamed East to West on the valley floor. The rhythm of the wheels over the track Approaching, deafening then receding from sight Combine with skylarks, thrushes and rooks, And a cuckoo returns to announce Spring.
Beneath the tracks, lie lost and forgotten, Signs of invaders become home makers, The Normans, Danes, Romans and Brits. Broken pots, coins and fragments of bone Litter the valley with its gentle slopes While standing tall as sentinels on watch Ancient monuments to the eternal Divine, And in the heavens a skylark sings
Under the pots and fragments of bone Lie the valley's wealth, its rich bedrock of sand, gravel, ironstone and lime Jurassic in time, sedimentary in nature, Layer upon layer Bivalves and tusks, Ditritus and "toe nails" Sank and Settled Under the melt water Before the first Spring.
I remember, I remember The garden at my grandma's house, Where honesty and nettles grew With ferns, rhubarb and the odd mouse!
I remember, I remember Goldenrod and Solomon seal; The nettles where my brother fell Then smeared with calamine, to heal.
My mum remembers the garden As a pleasant place to play Fish, newts and frogs swam in the pond, Her dad's shed as a hideaway.
She remembers, she remembers Rabbits and chickens roaming free, 'Til the potatoes were lifted Then skinned and eaten for tea!
She remembers, I remember London Pride, and a rambling rose; Marguerites with large white petals But no place set aside to doze.
I remember, I remember Kinloch's bakery was next door. The tall trees and meadow remain, But the shop and house are no more.
I took some plants, dug up some fern When the house granddad built was sold. They took root and each Spring emerge With treasured memories, like gold.
poet does a run 