Perspective

I am a bad lass. I’m so slammed with other stuff that I haven’t written anything for this. However, I think this piece from February 2018 works. Hugs and good health to all.

I look around, my mind is filled

With pots and cloths and clothes and things

The clutter that comes in bags from school

The scattered stuff the postman brings

A sock hangs off the angled chair

A cup is perched right on the edge

Fingerprints on walls abound

Cat fur lines the window ledge

But if you walk across the park

And head towards the underpass

Ignore the coloured painted tags

Step round the routine broken glass

Look up, a square of pristine sky,

Windwashed leaves are dancing free,

Nothing besides, that’s all I want

The sky, the leaves and, down here, me.

The Faerie Wall

Keep away from the wall, my child,

It keeps us from the faeries wild.

It keeps us from their faerie fear.

Keep away, my child, come here.

They blight the cows and cost us money

They steal the bees and take the honey

They spoil the butter in the churn

They cause the cakes and bread to burn

They steal our children, blight our wheat,

Ruin pigs and taint the meat.

Keep away from the wall, my dear,

Keep away, my child, come here.  

Shadow in the Corner

I thought I would start Fright Night with some poetry first published 20 November 2018

Photo by George Hiles on Unsplash

It’s an old stone house with a tall stone tower

It’s bent and battered but it still holds power

And the priests keep blessing but the dark’s still calling

So the cattle’s brought in soon as night starts falling

We’re the edge of the kingdom so we don’t pay taxes

And the only human sounds are the woodcutter’s axes

So the lords don’t bother and we like it that way

Though few who come to work here have the heart to stay

There’s a new girl in the kitchens and we have to warn her

Of the stain that hides in the shadow in the corner.

Today is the first day of the October Frights Blog Hop. There are lots of lovely posts on lots of wonderful blogs, and you can find them here:Are You Afraid of the Dark? , The Word Whisperer , Hawk’s Happenings , Carmilla Voiez Blog , M’habla’s! , CURIOSITIES , Frighten Me , Winnie Jean Howard , Balancing Act , James P. McDonald , greydogtales

My Lion

Photo by Taylor Grote on Unsplash

I wrote this so long ago, and I’ve posted it elsewhere, but it’s still one of the favourite things I’ve ever written, and my son’s homework reminded me of it so I thought I would bring it out again.

My little lovely tabby is looking rather sweet.
The elegant and tabby tail is curled around her feet.
Expressionless she looks at me with bland and secret eyes,
Assured the plate of sausages was dinner in disguise.

I want to read the paper but my lap is occupied.
A tabby cat is dozing so I’ve put my read aside,
And though it’s really painful as the claws are sinking in,
The sound of cat contentment keeps me tickling her chin.

It’s as if a dozen devils are fighting on the floor,
And a screwed up piece of paper is tossed from paw to paw.
It’s thrown, bit and fought and then chased across the stairs,
Then the tabby runs in panic from a fright that isn’t there.

My cat lies soft in sunlight and her fur is golden bright,
Her eyes are slits of slumber as she turns into the light,
She stretches like a lion sprawled who drowses in the heat,
And dreams of Serengeti mice are twitching at her feet.

My tabby’s meditating and her limbs are all tucked in,
Her head is nodding forward as she draws herself within,
And. who knows, if she meditates to the fire’s gentle hum,
Her focus will reward her and a lion she’ll become.

Sparrow

Flit through the branches, bounded by brambles, nimble witted

Squabble and scatter, chatter and chase, dawn clatter and dust-baths

Tiny not timid, tenaciously territorial, quicksilver to the seed heads

Singing from gutters, pattering on pavements, defying the traffic

Unruly urchin birds, diminutive, darting and dashing

Yet cousins to swans

Photo by Nastya Kvokka on Unsplash

Not Death

So slowly creeps the lichen in the sun

And slowly the trees stretch their arches

Spreading shade over the green acres

Where the snails leave their silver paths

 

Slow too is the slow rise of the hedges

But beating quicker is the grass,

Which is pinned by the spring daisies

Lest it rise to the clouds

 

Beating quicker are the green shoots

Twining at the base of the hedges

In the corners of the dim shade

At the base of the stones

 

And the spring bulbs are bursting

And leaves push out and up to sunshine

As the first bees harvest the dying grave flowers

Warmed by the growing sun

 

Birds flit, their shadows racing

Across wood and stone and grass

As the fledglings call and cry

Daily getting nearer to their own flight

 

And underneath, the shy voles

Scamper and search among the offerings

Tiptoeing through last year’s leaves

Slipping down the root tangle

 

And in a corner, busy ants

Harvest the crumbs and keep their march

As their nest warms in the mild sun

And the petals are dropping.

 

This is no place of death

This is a place where the dead remember

The rushing, pushing, pulse of spring

And celebrate their life.

Image from the Swedish National Heritage Board and used under the Creative Commons Agreement

As It Should Be

 

Tell me again, about the fight

And how you fought it to the damnation

See me writing how you fought the fight

And I look on and nod in admiration.

Hey, look at you, I lean in closer

You fought the fight and here I am admiring

You are the destiny, I just cook the meals

You come home to a hero’s welcome

And as I scurry round to find the feast

And wonder whether the wine will last the night

Tell me again about the fight

And I’ll make sure an audience awaits.

I do a thousand thousand tiny works,

I find your shield and shirt and sword

And lay in preparations for your feast

And wonder if I’ve done enough

So here you are, hero and warrior wild

And I am grateful that you stoop to me.

You are the centre of the bardic tales

And I, peripheral, will worship thee

 

Originally posted February 2nd 2018

Sea God Calling

 

He stood between the land and sea.

He cocked his head and beckoned me.

I shook my head, ‘You let me be.

You’ll get no power over me.’

His hair waved dark, his eyes sparked blue.

He raised his hand and the cold wind blew.

I will not bow nor bend the knee,

You’ll get no power over me

Strong he stood, the clouds hung low.

I wanted him but dare not go.

A mortal woman’s not for thee,

You’ll get no power over me.’

The waves dashed high where the sea god stood.

I bit my lip and I tasted blood.

I wanted him, ‘You let me be,

I’ll give no power over me.’

He beckoned me, I felt the call,

The sun shone warm on the sea god tall.

I whispered, ‘Do not call to me,

I daren’t give power over me.’

He strode across the warming sand

And knelt to gently kiss my hand.

Lady, at your whim I be

You have love’s power over me.’

Originally published May 8th 2016

Harbour

Image from WikiCommons, taken by Rev Dave and used under the Creative Commons Attribution Share Alike 3.0 Unported License

I have a dream where the dusk is falling

And I can hear the sound of the sea birds calling.

The wind is soft and the air is warm,

The storm has passed and the sea is calm.

The fishers are home on the turning tide,

Their boats tied tight to the harbour side.

The steps lead down to the quay below,

Clean and safe in the lamp’s soft glow.

Just step, I know, on the wide, stone stair.

Just step, in the soft and dreamy air.

A gentle path to a solid quay.

And a harbour safe waits there for me.

Originally posted December 2nd 2015

Displacement

 

The cupboards need cleaning, I’ll turn them all out,

 I can check all the contents and move stuff about.

I’ll rotate the cans of the sweetcorn and beans

And won’t have to think what a eulogy means.

 

This floor is disgusting, I’ll get it scrubbed clean.

I can move out the chairs and sweep in between.

I can polish the legs of the table and sink.

I can scour and rinse and I won’t have to think.

 

The table needs moving, it’s in the wrong place

And tablecloth’s edged with the wrong kind of lace.

It all needs renewing or at least turning out,

Which means no time to think what tomorrow’s about.

 

I’ve dusted the top of the doorway and door,

I’ve counted the candles and twice mopped the floor,

Tomorrow’s the funeral, but I’ve no time to think,

As it’s far too important to scour out the sink.

Originally posted September 5th 2015