I love the peace of my river As it flows in and out to the sea Moving slowly but determined It soothes the stress from me. The gulls that cry in the morning Or the Curlew chortle at night Seems to calm my inner soul And makes everything seem right. So no need for pills or alcohol Happiness is within easy reach When the salt waters of my river Lap softly at the beach.
Tag: Beach
Passing the Curlew
May I hear the Curlew as I pass away?
It's been part of my life for so long.
The nesting chortling on the marshes
has become my favourite song.
If I sit still on the seawall
as the sun fades away to the west.
The bustle across the mud and beach
is the sound that I love best.
Because the Curlew endures so
and will always remain
I know their cries will reverberate
within my dying brain.
Work Party
The membership of the river club met on the jetty as the tide rose. A cheerful bunch of elderly men doing maintenance at season's close. Here the fluky tides hook in and drop detritus on the beach. Missing dinghies, bits of wood, plastic bottles for coke or bleach. The cheerful banter abruptly stopped some wondered why the chatter ceased for there with the flotsam and the junk was a sodden funeral wreath.
A Gift from the Deserts
I love a warm wind A friendly summer breeze It wraps me in optimism And puts me at ease. It's so welcome when it comes To city streets or country lane To the deck of a heeling boat Or a crowded beach in Spain. The warm wind tans our paleness And our faces take on a glow Drab clothing is cast away And stressed pulses begin to slow. It's the deserts that give up their heat To the drifting passing air Which, carried over land and seas Ensures we get a share.
Lollipop Sticks
This frail girl in my lounge was dying
But so grateful now was she
She had made a gift from lollipop sticks
To express her thanks to me.
She had little else to give away
But with some sticks and glue
She made a gift quite special
Because her dream came true.
Her last wish was a family break
In the sun of Spain
And this important moment
Would never come again.
Good people of science had tried
To stem her marauding cells
Even took a limb completely
But still her body swells.
A club of generous men paid
For her and hers to fly
To be together on a distant beach
Before she said goodbye.
How very cruel and senseless
For mean gods to steal
A twelve year old young girl's life
A sentence with no appeal.
At least she had had her wish
Which she craved so much
To lay on a beach with her family
and do without the crutch.
She left behind a little house
made from sticks of wood
A reminder of a chance she gave
to me to do some good.
Rosalind Ward RIP
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 