Moon

The moon with its great

One-eyed-insect glare

Bathes the garden tonight,

Even the moths seem to be

Hiding from her searchlight glow.

 

Perhaps they have all

Upped wings and beaten

Their way high up toward

This beacon, so low in the sky

On this late summer’s night?

 

Or do they all meet secretly,

Under the leaves and bushes,

Whispering quiet thoughts to each other?

Plotting ways to make contact

With this great eye-in-the-sky.

 

The moon waits patiently

For the sun to end its vigil

A view of Warlingham Hill

When June’s rising birdsong wakes from watchful sleep,

And hawthorn blossoms shimmer at dawn’s first gasp;

Warlingham Hill escapes cotton puff clouds,

Leaves serenity closer, just within grasp.

 

When blackbirds chorus their borrowed songs,

As sun rays dapple through elm tree leaves;

My thoughts turn thankful for life’s small wonders,

The gladdening magic these hills gently weave.

Excerpt from ‘Colours’ a book by himself


I have spent the past six months writing when the mood takes me and now have around fifty poems to seek a publisher.

Whilst this is ongoing I hope you like this sample from three poems:

Blue Wizard

Impossibly blue are you

Azure, turquoise, lazuli-lidded

As you lie, awakening

To the gentle lull of the day 

You lap your waves, your swell

Rolls and washes into the shore

Prayer to the heavens

Yours is the kindly face of one thousand Angels 

Eyes twinkling through inken heavens

Do you marvel at the great Majesty that is man?

Do you worship his magnificence?

Fugue

What if there is purpose to their buzzing?

What if it is more than draft and waft of wings on air?

What if they are Bach’s horns or Beethoven’s even?

Leading us along dawn’s awakening fugue

The debt that sets us free

A typical Surrey hayfield
A typical Surrey hayfield

Few sounds, though heard so seldomly,
register with our audio database,
almost instantly identifiable as we
sweep the skies for Spitfire wings.

Some sights swell national pride
like this Prince of the Royal Air Force,
arcing on the wing, fast descending,
tilting his colours at those transfixed below.

We Brits stand a little taller,
spines stretch a little straighter,
chests out, shoulders back, eyes aloft
as we remember past glories, prices paid.

Our words may never be good enough
epitaphs for those brave men and women,
whom, but for they, our world would not be.
Our depth of pride sprouts wings, sets us free.

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Sunday in an English country garden

"Alright shorty we give up already: where the duck are you?"
“Alright shorty we give up already: where the duck are you?”

Waking early in summer is a joy, what’s not to like? It’s warm, the sun is with us most of the day and you just feel a little lighter, brighter and keen to explore. Well I do. Not sure about my flatmate, crawled out of the bedroom a half hour ago then crawled straight back in deciding it was too early.

Today, I’m paying it forward as many people do.

There’s an old country garden that needs some attention; lawns will be mowed, edges trimmed and weeds banished. All of which is a bit much for the septagenarian owner, but she cooks a mean roast when she’s not napping in her summer house.

Here’s a couple of snaps from her lovely Surrey garden, the colours this time of year are simply brilliant.

Sunday’s are meant for an English country garden and a cracking Sunday roast. Nice and slow, next week will be hectic…

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