Category Archives: Nature

An Easterly

The wind gets to you the way

other weathers won’t,

smiting your face with

unexpected blusters, the blows

turning your cheeks red,

chasing you round corners

as though each gust was

after you personally and

each grain of grit

aimed perfectly at the

centre of your eye.

Fog/Frost

fog_frost

The garden at night folds into the

fog rolling in whilst beneath it the

frost works its wonders

refiguring the bench-cover into a

carapace for some

movie monster and

freezing each dewdrop into

enough jewels to encrust

Orion’s ice-taut belt.

Spheres

Perhaps Ptolemy wasn’t so wrong when

I feel some nights the

spheres within spheres, the

roiling clouds wracked by

moonlight, the slowly

circling stars and the

great red-hot iron

rim of the galaxy

rolling soundlessly

millions of miles

above my head.

Blackboard

Night after cloudless night

pursuing Perseids draws a

blank knowing once

curtains are closed

one fiery fingernail will

scrape across the sky’s

black board.

Gutter

The pigeon on the neighbour roof

immobile this last few hours

blinks its incomprehension as

day collapses into the

gutter of night.

Unperceived Winds

Concussed

You slept so long you missed how a

drizzly day changed so abruptly, the

concussed clouds battered aside by

winds we can’t perceive, the sky all

torn attire and blushes.

 

Stone

The sun set

The Sun set like a stone

rippling the calm sky.

Scents and Sensibility

It only takes a light drizzle to

ignite the garden smells

wriggling through the open door to

meet the slowly-maturing scent of a

leg of lamb roasting full of

garlic and rosemary.

 

Tonight we will eat our fill, the

tang of mint already on my tongue, and

tomorrow, I just know, there will be a

sudden rash of roses.

Ordnance Survey

I get lost in the Ordnance Survey,

following a streamlet from fount to

ford to flow at sea; finding the

crossed-swords of battlefields; the

demi-moon of a fine view; the

churches—steepled, belfried or

unadorned; how long or steep a walk before the

welcome public house; how well those

ancient builders knew the land when they

sighted their chambered tombs, as

alive to lines of sight as those

Gunners to whom we owe all this

rich detail, this masterpiece of the

cartographer’s art.

 

And yet I still hanker to find some

white space, unlined because

undiscovered, unpeopled,

“Not Marked on the Ordnance Map”.

(The last line is a chapter heading from Jocelyn Brooke’s remarkable but little-read novel “The Image of a Drawn Sword”.)

Shallow Moon

The Moon has no June; has

never had a Harvest; knows nothing of

Honey; is neither Bitter nor

Blue; isn’t there to be

shot at, light Bombers’ paths or

illumine a Hunter’s prey;

doesn’t answer to Selene, Diana,

Astarte; cannot be Faithful or

Inconstant, even as it

slowly creeps away like a

grown child from a

demanding parent.

Sara in LaLaLand

Welcome to my world.

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