Poetry Blogs (2019, moorland)
The evening sun scorches the shade.
The trees, in their glade, are forced to choose;
Stand tall and brave - or turn to crave
the cool safety of the dusk.
Like soldiers from another age, they are proud and tall,
Defenders of nature with their all.
Their bark tells the story, of seasons full of change.
Frost. Ice. Mud. Heat. Few, then a lot... of peoples feet.
Sunday 20th October 2019 9:57 pm
And so it begins. Or ends
The seasons change and as
September dies lies forgotten
Like Summer, Autumn October
Rears. Not misty mellow fruitfullness
With rusty leaf colour bright splashing
Hedgerow and tree russet yellow brown,
Mists that turn to rain and wind and heavy
Rain splashing in the track ruts and puddles
Around the farm; every field soggy with all the...
Sunday 13th October 2019 3:08 pm
Sitting to the east
Sloping down to the edge
Of that other world
In the summer sun
In the winter chill
The sentinel watched over
The little family in the cottage in the hollow
Lately it had felt her sorrow
It knew when she left Pant y Lleiniau
And walked slowly along the cart track
To reach the little bridge under the trees
Where she crossed Nant yr Efail ...
Wednesday 10th July 2019 5:20 pm
Where the fragrant heather moorland borders
wildwood, by the crags above the river,
the harebells and last fading heads of clover
nod themselves to sleep in drowsy August.
The ling is now full-on and tightly ordered
spikes of tiny flowers blanket over
the landscape like an Emperor’s purple toga
swathed across the heights, but thrice more gorgeous.
The fated grouse may look ...
Saturday 18th August 2018 10:31 am
The shrill piping call of the returning Curlew
Contrasting with the lonely peep- peep of Golden Plover
Plaintive note of Peewit carried on the wind from its arching flight
Wading birds reclaiming their share of the corduroy moorland
Nesting sites found on drier ground among ling and crowberry
Ascending notes of Skylark lift the spirit and raise hopes
Honk of Raven ...
Sunday 5th May 2013 2:44 pm
Rounded lump of grey gritstone now balanced in the beck
Divides rushing stream linking high heather moor to distant sea
A shining silver thread through dale and wold to wide Humber
This same stone, surface scrubbed smooth by falling water
Now releases a stanza carved by a craftswoman from a script written by a poet
Ink to paper
Hammer to chisel
Rock to eye
Monday 4th March 2013 5:23 pm