Good morning little Island Emerging from the marsh mist You are now of little importance But you are on histories list. The Vikings camped in your fields And waded to the mainland to fight A King was lost to England here Sunk beneath the Nordic might. Your land size varies twice a day As the tide rises and falls Birds take sanctuary in your grasses And fill the air with their calls. The single house I see looks bleak Alone on the higher grounds But authors and painters were pleased To be free of neighbour sounds. You can sit in pride small Island Aloof from the mainland's frantic pace The river embraces you fondly And protects your insular space.
New Beginnings
Here at last in my new garden shed
Dishwasher loaded and Labrador fed
I sit and await creative thought
But comes there nothing – zilch! Nought.
It’s not supposed to be like this
Words should flow in my new found bliss
I sit, think, take another sip of tea
Still no inspiration comes to me.
I try something tested by poets before
Like the joy of opening nature’s door
And infected by the beauty on display
Words start flowing – I’ve something to say.
The grass is dew wet and happy birds sing
In warm sun as if it were spring
Flowers nod in the zephyr breeze
Ripe apples falling where they please.
This is more like it, words start to flow
It becomes clear which way to go
New thoughts arrive now, my brain is fed
By the magical ambience of my new garden shed.
The Bell
It’s said that only children
can hear Santa’s Bell
From baby to toddler
they hear the ringing well.
Something in their senses
clicks on inside their head
as Santa starts his journey,
and off they go to bed.
Come morning, as they wake
There’s joy but no surprise
at all the jolly parcels
laid out before their eyes.
Of course there’s gifts aplenty
no need to shout and yell
it’s Christmas time again and
they’d heard Santa’s Bell.
Then they grow and time moves on
and life gets in the way
the bells of Christmas grow quiet
and adult life holds sway.
I am a lucky parent
to have a son who still
tho full grown likes the magic
and no doubt always will.
He gets ready weeks before
to languish within the spell
of this joyous celebration
and the sound of Santa’s Bell.
Carol of Hope
It's that time of the year again
When our hearts fill with cheer again.
Across all the lands
Nations could join hands,
Now it's that time of year again.
Just think how good it would be
If the world joined with you and me;
With our differences gone
We could move the world on,
Now it's that time of year again.
You can say that it's only a feast,
And pointless to man or beast;
But this Christmas we might
Put some old evils right,
As it's that time of year again.
Be you Christian, Muslim or Jew,
We share the planet with you,
So let's make amends,
Let us all be friends
Now it's that time of year again.
Why Worry
We worry far too often
About climate change and such
About family, work, war and cash
We worry far too much.
Is it why we are put here
And is there a special plan
For us to tend the garden
For some coming omnipotent man?
There has to be a purpose
In our daily thrash around
Why we till and turn the same patch
of already seeded ground.
If only we could foster
The sense to turn and play
And fight the over-riding drive
to meet our troubles halfway.
16th February 2014
Time
Old clocks have within them
a cog and a dropping pawl
each click of this assembly
measures time and counts it all.
While the clock rarely varies
and keeps our time on track
the pace of our earlier lives
seems faster looking back.
Our first school, kiss or job
such moments of agony gone
we learnt to ride life's waves
and to go forward, moving on.
And still the clocks keep ticking
as another year goes by
we study, work, marry, while
jealous time wasters don't try.
Some build cathedrals to work
buying homes and keeping fed
now after years of hard toil
can't enter that place without dread.
Time can make work seem pointless
as the sands in the glass run low
perhaps a seat in the sun is better
letting stress and the worries go.
Tick...….
12th January 2013
The Hole
There is a hole in all our lives now
because he went away
he was the sort of friend you treasure
and want forever to stay.
We miss his fulsome greetings
always certain to banish gloom
and the single minded quest for food
brought laughter to any room.
Only with us for a short time
fewer years than what is fair
we still look towards his bed each day
and expect him to be there.
So there's this hole in our lives now
and will be evermore
a very large and definite void
….in the shape of a Labrador.
31st August 2013
The Pit
Standing on the edge of the pit
The one labelled seventy
Our sixties seem fine and we are
Striving to resist being sedentary.
The knees still work but ache
The eyes aren't what they were
The hearing is just acceptable
But the days rush by in a blur.
Daily it seems we are visited
By deeds and words from before
Flags of conscience pass our eyes
Like a malicious semaphore
Why did we say those words
Which made another soul cry
Or trample on the ideas of folk
Who couldn't stand eye to eye.
Perhaps now it is our duty
To help others to reach and climb
After all we have now been there
Won experience and done the time.
Let us all stand at the edge of the pit
Link arms, hold hands and laugh
Jump in! The next ten years could be
Like a warm and scented bath.
15th January 2013
Take my Arm
I will wait until your winter has gone
Until the pieces fall into place
Until the cold winds are all blown away
And you move on with the sun on your face.
Bad times need only be temporary
If you can call on good friends
They guide you across the furrows and
Ease the load while your hurting mind mends.
Later you will be so much stronger
When new resolve comes to stay
I am here till your springtime comes
And your winter has gone away.
September Memories
As an onshore wind moves the trees
With the smell of seaweed on the breeze
Memories return just as they please.
Ah September!
Past holidays return with a leap
Spent here in Autumn when quite cheap
So exciting he couldn't sleep
In September.
A young boy not yet seven
Knee deep in mud soft and even
Thinks he's just arrived in Heaven
Great September.
This is the best place he ever saw
There's freedom here - no playground law
And he doesn't even know he's poor -
It's just September.
Years later and this man reflects
On life and love, wealth and sex
And why life now is so complex
Not September.
When he can walk this beach no more
And journeys to a higher shore
He will meet those pleasures gone before
Again September.
The river Blackwater in Essex is in my soul. I was taken to Mersea Island every Autumn when a child and still sail in the area now in my middle seventies. One bright Blackwater morning while walking on the foreshore this poem came to me.
As I See Things 