skygazing

early evening star
Venus - a narrow crescent
approaching the sun

A spring walk (May 10)

Spring is in full swing

pushed higher by downpours.

Bluebells, cowslips, campion

colour the green, splash over the lines -

new life, loud birdcalls, running hares.

Memorial benches punctuate the walk

and, tucked behind a tree,

protected by clear-film,

is a card from a widower to his love.

Geoff Hamilton’s drought garden

is overgrown,

yet bursts of pink and orange, deep red and gold flowers

tempt the eye

and the parchment-bark

of Himalayan silver birch glows pale. 

Nonsense and rain

Written on May 1st - I think we may be near the forty days without one entirely dry by now. Possibly?


Forty days


On my head is the hat of gloom,
she intoned.
No one gave me the hat of carefree jollity, alas.

The old man’s snoring in the rain
while the ducks are singing in tune tonight.

How many more days before the forty total’s up?
Hey, Swithun? 
I thought it was in July that you objected
when they moved your bones indoors.

Though Doctor Foster’s refusal to return
was to Gloucester
not Winchester
Will they need another diver 
to keep the foundations flood-free now?

I counted – twenty-nine so far
Unless I am mistaken.

A strange sonnet of sorts

Written to use prompts : 

Waterlogged-It's always fish on Friday-Hullabaloo-Lime-green pencil-Overflowing dustbin-Orange

- the sense is not focused.

Messy morass

Although the fields were waterlogged we tried

to make our way across the soggy wastes

which stretched ahead according to our tastes.

It’s always fish on Friday, batter-fried,

she mouthed, unheard amid the hullabaloo

waving her lime green pencil like a wand

conducting this unruly lawless band

of ne’er-do-wells whose dads are on the brew.

Like them these kids could very soon land in

that no man’s land of aimless thoughtless souls

the feckless, oft-blamed, idle scrounging crew

with other dust and dross, and life’s own goals

the orange jump-suit clad, despised and blue

who shovel shit, which overflows life’s bin.

A metrical hiccup/possibly permitted variation, I tell myself, in line 5.


A cat-shaped hole

We don’t need to close the door to keep the cats out

or feed them as we make our morning tea.

We won’t have to stop them leaping on the table,

Or on friends who really don’t like cats a lot.

No more jokes about cats with rolling pins

waiting at the door when we get home late –

no more silliness about doing the cleaning,

spoken to a cat with a mob cap and apron.

No making sure they're always fed and watered

No need to tell the neighbours we’re away.

The sparrows and the blackbirds’ll be safer

Though it’s been a while since any danger lurked.

The blankets are all washed and stored – or binned,

the dishes will turn into plant pot saucers

and we’ll give spare tins of food away.

Sure, life will be easier and simpler

But these creatures leave a biggish cat-shaped hole.