ABERMAW
Upon the shore, I sit and feel
The cool breeze upon my brow.
Where Land meets Sea,
And both greet the Sky,
I listen as the spirits dance,
To the songs of my ancestors.
Here the moon-driven sea,
Laps against her mothers feet,
And I sit nestled in her lap
As pebbles that once were mountains
Whisper to me of ancient heroes,
Of princes and the lost Cantrefs.
Where Bran watched the fleet,
Of proud Ireland’s King come,
To woo fair Branwen on the shores
Of Dyffren Ardudwy,
Where he gave her to Matholwch
And sealed his own doom.
Where the last Prince of the free
Gathered his men, a golden battle host
To throw down the dark fortress
Of the Saesneg lords.
Where for a bright moment
We stood as men beneath this sky.
Here we began a song of hope
To the heroes of Harlech,
That would carry proud Cymric warriors
Through dark nights under African skies
And bring Evans 152 back to his farm
On the slopes of Cader Idris.
Here, on this shore, the songs go on,
Of Gruffydd, and Evans,
Jones and Glyndwr.
The ancestors stretch back behind me
Into the golden mists of memory
And I listen, that I might sing for my children.
Craig
ACHARN FALLS
Wrapped by the land
We were guided by the roar
Of water scouring through the gorge.
Above us a veil of green
Shimmered with light
In the gentle breeze.
Moss covered roots
Like fingers questing,
Rippled down the slopes.
Drawn onwards we walked.
Seekers of magic from a stress filled world.
Clambering over rounded boulders
To reach waters edge.
Like iced tea over my outstretched hands.
Face and hands bathed in coolness
I turned, clambered once more
To sit by water’s roar.
Then once more we quested on
And magic’s promise found
Hidden by tree and boulder
Cauldron and pool we found
Stirred by falling thunder.
Rusted beech leaf fell
Floating down to cauldron’s bowl.
Caught, swept round, tossed, pounded.
Freedom found, swept down.
Life’s trials mirrored
Released we float until
Tossed once more.
Float and absorb the view.
Potia [written on 5 October 2013 following a visit to Acharn Falls near Loch Tay]
BIRDSLAND
There is a power inherent in this place
An energy not held by gate or fence
A subtle force that beckons you inside
That calls to you and draws you to its space
Around its tranquil waters, quiet and still
A small child cycles, calling to her Dad
Her laughter chiming out upon the air
A breeze swirls patterns on the cradling hills
Hand in hand a couple walk their dog
Past fishermen like statues with their rods
Whilst unperturbed the water birds watch on
A young man pants, intent upon his jog
Beyond the rise where hill meets cobalt sky
Where ancient stone breathes deeply in the land
And bush enfolds an ancient place of knowing
On sun warmed rock I let my body lie
A wallaby through nearby trees thuds by
Percussion to the music of the land
Accompanying the wind that sings through leaves
An eagle glides the thermals up on high
I feel the strong, slow pulse that beats around me
Infusing me with quietude and calm
Infinitude of now and of all being
I close my eyes so I might further see
Deep spirit dwells within this place of stone
Emanating out ‘cross vale and hill
Embracing all within its boundless hold
In solitude I lie but not alone
Within my heart I hear you calling clearly
I shared your torment thinking of the flames
I pray for your swift healing and renewal
Though blackened I still love your spaces dearly
Blessed am I to know this special park
To share its gifts of energy and peace
Its presence still shines out to touch me deeply
Undimmed by fire and smoke in hours of dark
Joanne White [Beltane 2009]
EXCAVATIONS
Excavations:
A building site:
Work in progress.
The surrounding trees stare down at the piles of fresh rubble,
And whisper to each other.
They’ve seen it all before.
Pits lie open in the ground, dark as a corpse’s eyes:
The soil is damp and streaked with Devon-red clay,
Broken like fresh meat exposed to view.
This construction began long before I arrived.
As the city takes shape,
Each new season bringing fresh work,
Fresh pits,
Fresh spoil.
So why do I feel the need to pause here?
Why does this place bring me a sense of calm; of antiquity?
It’s always quiet when I pass,
I’ve never seen them at work,
Just the odd glimpse at dusk before they melt away like spirits.
Their history is as old as mine
But their history is rooted in this place,
Literally winding between the very roots of the woodland;
Going back perhaps centuries.
I wonder, as my own mind looks to ancestors who have moved,
Putting down shallow roots for a generation or two before moving on again.
Their generations have always been here.
So I pause, pay my respects for their steadfastness
And then move on, just a little calmer for that short communion with Brock.
Steve Thomason [Summer 2014]
FREE
Twenty years ago in 1985, some people thought,
It was a pretty good time, just to be alive.
To celebrate this fact, and to show how life could be,
They decided to organise a festival,
A festival at Stonehenge, a festival for free.
In a peace convoy they made their way,
To be at the henge for Midsummer’s Day,
To stand in the circle that’s made out of stone,
On land, land that was given to the nation, land that all of us own,
That many consider their spiritual home.
People had plans, festival scams,
Making and selling stuff out of their vans,
Going to sing, going to dance,
Going to lose their heads in a trance,
They were hitting the road,
With their own moral code,
But the bonfire they’ve built,
Is about to explode.
The government decide to invent a new crime,
It’s called being in the wrong place and being there at the wrong time,
It’s legally dubious, and in the first trial case,
Solstice is the time and Stonehenge is the place,
Ain’t the free country just ace.
Seven miles from Stonehenge the convoy is met,
The roads have been blocked, a trap has been set.
Police from six counties are lying in wait,
On the Stonehenge free festival they’re shutting the gate.
Without any warnings they commence their attacks,
The peoples’ peace convoy is stopped in it’s tracks,
Unable to move they park up in the fields,
And are quickly surrounded by sticks, and surrounded by shields.
The Chief Inspector offers deals he thinks fair,
You can all be arrested and have your kids placed in care,
This does not receive and enthusiastic response,
Because to many travellers have been down that road once.
People are scared and they just want to leave,
And they ask the police to grant a reprieve,
But there¹s no negotiations and patience soon runs out,
The ‘Battle of the Beanfield’ turns into a rout.
All of a sudden all hell’s breaking loose,
There’s a face at your window screaming abuse,
“Get out of your bus, and get on to the floor!”
Next thing you know, your being dragged through a window, that was only
broken a second before,
Hey peace convoy, take a lesson in war!
Yeah, the biggest mass arrest since the second World War,
But what was the crime, what was it for,
What was so bad, that you had to prevent,
That you came on that convoy with such violent intent,
That was clearly shown, by the fact that police numbers were not clearly
shown,
A sure sign you were up to no good,
You came to christen truncheons in travellers’ blood,
And worst still, you were seen to take pleasure in these deeds,
Oh Dixon of Dock Green, come back, your lawns full of weeds.
And in the midst of this carnage a young women screams,
” Goway! See what they’re doing to us!”,
Cos’ they’re smashing her home and they’re smashing her dreams,
And the sound of breaking glass and children’s crying fills the air,
And everywhere people screaming, being bashed and flattened and dragged by
the hair,
And in total despair, you cower on the ground, shivering, swearing, crying,
bleeding,
Shielding your head from that terrible sound,
That should have been children’s laughter and shrieks of delight,
And music, and drumming, and singing, and talking going on long, long into
the night,
But not tonight,
Can this really be happening, can this really be right?
No more camp fires,
Just the thick acrid smoke of burning tyres.
And so the situation is brought under control,
Well almost, not quite,
Because somewhere a camera continues to roll,
And a man pleads with the screen,
” Help us, we’re genuine people like yourselves and we need your help right
now!”
And the ITN reporter, he can’t believe what he’s seen,
” People being clubbed whilst holding babies in their arms”.
These are the words he’ll use,
But words never heard on the Ten O’clock News,
Don’t you know, video tapes are quite easy to lose,
When the powers that be don’t agree with your views,
But someone who was sweeping that cutting room floor,
Decided we should all see what those journalists saw,
And so a documentary was made for TV,
By a group of reporters who thought the press should be free.
And that’s how these images entered my eyes,
And I saw those faces obscured by lies,
There was no doubt in my mind, there could be no mistake,
Terror like that can’t be easy to fake.
And so these hippies, these travellers, these people called ‘scum’.
Who were quickly forgotten when the damage was done,
I just couldn’t get their panic stricken faces out of my head.
And so one day I thought, “I’ll do something about this instead”.
And I knew we’d succeed, because at the end of the day,
Desire is stronger than fear, and love is stronger than hate,
And in time, in time, good things can come to people who wait.
In time, streams become rivers and rivers become mighty seas,
And in time, people can learn to respect the rights of other people to be
free,
And to do what they please,
And to worship the earth in Temples like these,
As our ancient right,
To be in a Henge, without being in a fight.
And so peace convoy, if you can hear me,
I want you to know, that what endured has not been in vein.
That you inspired a new group of people to do exactly the same,
And here we are at a Henge and here we are at Beltane!
And you might start to think I’m a little bit insane,
But, oh no, not at all, cos’ we’re all part of history, so let us stand and
be proud,
Let us wallow in freedom, let us shout it out loud,
Free, yeah that’s right, free!
Free, as in the opposite of slavery!
Yeah, free!
Free, as in not actually having to pay to get in!
Yeah, free!
The free like the birds, the free like the worms,
The freedom that can only be lived on your terms,
It runs in your veins, cannot be contained, by those chains we call fear,
Because you can arrest a festival, but you can’t arrest and idea,
And that’s why I’m here, and that’s why it’s me,
And that’s why it’s a henge, and that’s why it’s free.
And that’s almost it, but I’d just like to say.
I don’t mean to upset, and I don¹t mean to offend,
And I hope a policeman can still be my friend,
Because we all need to heal and we all need to mend,
And lastly, I would like to thank each one of you,
Each one of you personally,
For coming here, for coming for free,
To give my poem it’s very happy end,
As happy as any ending can be.
The End
Oliver Robinson
[A poem about the Battle of the Beanfield performed at Beltane at Thornborough Henge, May 1st 2005. TheBattle of the Beanfield took place 20 years earlier near to Stonehenge, on June 1st 1985. I wrote the poem in answer to the question of what had inspired and motivated me to organise a Free Festival at a Henge.]
Lockdown
In the quiet of a no car Sunday morning
The new dawn Sun still low, white and bright on the horizon
painting the world in long golds and greens
There is never silence
But today the modern world seems far away
The blackbird’s liquid melody plays across the lawn
uncluttered with the edgy rasp of tyre on tarmac
Pigeons clap as they climb into the sky
and fall in lazy curves onto steaming rooftops
sparrows cry out challenge from the guttering above my head
and fly into conversations in twittering hedgerows
the distance lowing of cattle in the fields
A fox barks and a pheasant takes to the air with a furtling hum
the subsonic thunder of a passing train breaks the silence for a long minute
shaking the peace and then accentuating it with its absence
Pale blue skies unstriped by airliners
The clean crisp air
Irrational excitement bubbles, if this might last… be the new norm
You can hear for miles
I take a long deep breath, savouring the taste of unpetrolled air
A moment of crisis-born unreality savoured, witnessed,
loved.
for now the cynic is set aside
And the robin who shares my moment takes to the holly tree
and sings and sings
©2020 bish / Mark Rosher [written during the Covid-19 Pandemic]
HEBRIDEAN PRAYER
I sit where I sat once at a road’s edge,
under a green rowan, cowled in rain.
The tree wears bracelets of water,
my wrists bear bracelets of dew.
Crows tangle in grey sky bruised with light.
A cloud breathes the hillside through its long gill of rain.
Sacred island…you have seen the bracken in flood,
Known tears, and time; here all is flow.
Heather, marsh-water and mud, things real
dissolve translucently, observe.
Empty, empty, cries the curlew,
looping its call around tussocks of light.
Cold roots in light, seeks seeds of stone.
A play of sun on things begot of bone,
light and emptiness, alone with the Alone.
O holy rain, strip me bare.
Make me nowhere.
Wind which grinds heather,
pluck my teeth,
pare bones and hair.
Make me air.
Fern and falling hawk,
my self discern,
in darkness and dearth.
Make of me earth.
Bloodwater midges,
dark-mirrored pool,
drain me dry.
Take from me this I.
Mark Wiliams
I AM THE GARDEN
I am the scented rose,
the bumble bees’ hum;
I am the spider weaving
her delicate song;
I am the breath of air,
the wind in the trees;
I am the soe mushrooms
pushing through leaves;
I am the grass between toes,
the embrace of the Earth;
I am the sun soaking through
the skin of rebirth.
I am the garden I roam,
this nemeton, this moment, right here,
I breathe with my soul
and am never alone.
Andrew Smith [Light Owl – Lammas 2013]
MEADOW’S MIST
My soul longs for morning’s call,
The peace that dimmed the day before
Again I seek with spirit above all.
The gentle mist over my meadow rests.
The light of day still new
Offers her gifts to wandering guests
Asking for wisdom to be whole.
She chides me be still and feel her strength,
Softly she guides home my soul.
Guy Jones [12 November 2005]
MYSTIC GLEN
Greenest glen, bedecked and jewelled with trees
Breathing dampened air down rocky throat,
Ruffling, rustling through the valley’s hair
And living pillars of this sanctuary.
Then through the leafy fronds the fay-folk peer:
They watch our progress as we walk their path,
Their muffled laughter sings upon the breeze
Unsighted, though we sense that they are near.
Lush life and growth unfold within the glen:
Soft rugs of moss, and cliffs bedecked with fronds.
The stream runs, laughing, over rock and root,
So echoing the humour of our friends.
This mystic glen is rich in life and love
To fill our souls from both below ‘nd above
David Stone
NO SPRINGTIME
Soon, they say, there will be no seasons.
Which means there will be no Spring.
Our greed; they say, is among the reasons.
We do the poisoning.
So those who follow will never see bluebells,
nor bloom fall, of apple or cherry.
Nor an oaken greened, cathedral dell,
when fierce young hearts are merry.
No billowing swell, of the blood in the vein,
no kissing on doorsteps in April rain,
no wondering how an eyebrow could arc so gold and fair,
as the lambs take their first tread, with the madness of the hare.
Is this what we have squandered?
Will great, green nature, not prevail?
Into what hell have we wandered, to leave legacy, so stale?
Coryllus
OF THIS LAND
Where did I walk in the dawn of the shadow’s sky?
Head swaying in the breeze as the winds sketch my hair,
Feet sinking deep, home in the soil.
The secrets and lines change each second as my mind races the landscape,
Walking into the next scene,
Embellishing her colours thick into my eyes.
The hills bump vividly into the background,
The rivers run down the paper, chasing the babbling brooks to the streams.
The trees stand tall, painting life, watching as the Earth collides with the Sky.
The oceans of thought trickle over each vision my mind creates,
Dancing on the shore under the moon crowned in time
Echoes that wash up in the tide draw pictures of our elders standing tall in stone.
The season’s seeds fall as they are called, sinking deep at the turn of the wheel,
New life is brewing whilst old life stews.
A collage emerges as each moment sustains to another memory, of this land.
JodyCopestake [November 2003]
OFF THE RAILS
This used to be a railway line, though now that’s hard to tell.
It looks as if it’s always been a shaded woodland dell.
The rails were ripped up long ago; forty years or more.
How quickly nature moves to reclaim the crown she wore.
Where creosoted sleepers lay the Rhododendron flowers.
Beech leaves in a breeze, a-sway, throw dappled sunlight showers.
The cutting looks for all the world like the dried bed of a stream;
but it was gouged with picks and bars, by some old navvy team.
Slim saplings of the mighty Oak grow tall as several men,
and seem to silently mock the days when trains ran through the glen.
Fallen stones gleam green with moss and form a bulging ridge.
Now, Stoat clan, dart among the ruin, of what was once a bridge.
Tansy, Fern and Holly bush grow thick where Rabbits play.
Young Foxes frisk; upon what men, once called, the ‘Permanent Way’.
Coryllus
PUGETIA
This terrain is quite familiar, as I stand here.
Wet sand sinks beneath my weight.
Sea foam nuzzles my ankles, then rushes away.
Here, terrors and failure; pain and tears are
jumbled with broken pieces and bits of joy.
The smallest seashell,
the size of a grain of sand, lies in my hand.
Amazing, how each one is different.
On my knees.
The cold wind blows against my skin.
My fingers numb and red gently caress
the broken shell line in the sand.
In these fragments, I find the gems of time.
Each shell unique, yet of each type the same.
Some, two halves make a whole;
Some spiral inward.
Broken pieces are evidence of the mystery.
Anita Ashford-Trotter [14 March 2003 – Gorsedd of Bards of Caer Pugetia]
RHYTHYMS OF PLACE
It starts silently
The spring seeping out of earth
As Spring creeps out of Winter.
Deep in trees a grouse drums
Slowly, then faster faster
Revving his engine to impress.
Echoed by a warbler
Several octaves higher a flute
trilling in crescendo.
An ovenbird keeps its own
staccato intervals:
“teacher teacher teacher”.
The wind the drone
Waves of breeze swelling and subsiding
As trees and grass applaud.
Sun and cloud
Dance their dance
of warm and chill.
The spring becomes a steady gurgling babble
As it rolls down to the brook
As Spring flows into Summer.
Rachel[Summer 2014]
SANCTUARY
The rocks whisper beneath my feet
tearing small cuts at my skin,
jagged on the razors edge, the tiny blood pools slip away.
The veil of night draws close
and the long shimmering lines of your tides
break the stony silence
infatuated, hanging from the sky.
I reach out to touch the silver blossom
so far yet reaching up so near,
they sit just on the tip of my finger,
gleaming like a mothers pride.
I peer out through these empty eyes
reflecting my visions over in my mind
watching as your face falls down,
soaking my body, holding it tight.
I curl up in your arms; earth mother
like your child you hold me firm
My intellect falls into a unkempt fire
my sanctuary forever burns.
Jody Copestake [May 2004]
SPIRIT OF PLACE
They dug you up from the ramp you were in to make that road anew. Taking you from the tarmac to their yard. From there you came here, thanks to one with a keen eye and a wise heart who brought you with him when he came to me. From water and wind to earth and sun, to sit under this oak by daffodil and willow, under the eye of the moon.
When I place my palms on you, I dig my hands deep into sand, on that beach in the west where seaweed fills the air, with the cliffs holding the bay of light blue, almost grey water. I remember the mornings when I walked my little gold dog there yapping to the tramps hidden by the dirgue, Grape Fleurie bottles skimming her tail as she ran with the gulls. That was winter – of wind and wet – all but the pines gone bald, but still some whisper of summer in their presence there, blue sky and heat in their hair. You know this: the smells, the sounds, the noise and taste of that place.
But how was it to feel the touch of car tyres on you as they rolled down the hill to park? Sandals must have tramped over you, ice cream may have melted into you, the boom of car radios must have beat through you, sun must have singed you as you lay there all day long. And yet, you show me none of this when I place my palms on you: trying to see if you accept this new home. Untouchable stone – there is no trace on you of them: no mark of black rubber, no trace, no scar. What are such things to you? The blink of an eye? A cloud of midges walked through on a summer night? One breath? You hold only the resonance of the sand and sea and sky.
And so I come, to honour you in this place at the bottom of our garden. Tentatively at first, I touch you and listen, I breathe your air. I wait. I drum a slow beat, whispering a prayer. I pour water and wine over you, and blood. I spit at your foot. I bring my gifts of spirit. I give thanks. I chant:
Blood and bone
Star and stone
All is one, all is one
As the oak watches, as the crows call, as the sun sinks under the horizon and the bats flit out, you seem to say to me that this is not too bad a place to be. So may it be.
Joanne le Pennec [June 2004]
STARVING AFRICA
Africa, you come to me shivering.
How cold and grey your sunny mornings must seem.
Your children weep,
For tomorrow brings no relief,
Just tears and death and another day.
Your shadows have long since taken shelter
beneath the wings of a starving bird.
Be Brave, for the bird has flown.
Soon your tomorrows will be today,
And a candle glows in our hearts.
Africa, you come to me shivering,
Soon your tomorrows will be today,
And we will bring you warmth.
Be Brave, sweet children, Be Brave.
Gwyn Thomas
[This piece was written in sadness and anger after working with “Medicines Frontiers” in Africa in 1979, unfortunately very little changes.]
STONEHENGE SOLSTICE
I must go down to the stones again,
To the lonely earth and the sky,
And meet with thirty-six thousand,
And party all night and get high.
Bring me my cans of Special Brew,
And hand me my towering spliff,
While I stagger around in a stupor,
One of me legs has apparently gone stiff.
I’m not one to queue for the toilets,
A free spirit will piss where he stands,
So excuse while I lean on this sarsen,
And liberally water these lands.
Soon when the time is upon us,
When I’m drunk and pissed as a newt,
I’ll clamber and climb with some others,
On them stones in me large hobnail boots.
As the sun greets the dawn and the litter,
The bottles and cans and the beer,
I remember them Druids and Witches,
And ask why it is they’re not here.
Mark (Wood Sage) [Lammas 2009]
Stonehenge
Oh, how I yearn to be alone.
Holding onto the open chalk, standing firm against the bite of wind, rain and Sun,
Showing impassive toleration to time.
At peace, while waiting for momentary pilgrims
If it were only traffic…
Roaring, throbbing carriers of men and matter, eating miles, eating the plain
In gouged arteries of concrete and fume.
Anonymous vibration. A drone of short-lived unimportance.
I could ignore interminable tourists
Pacing around my roped cage, shouting in. Not knowing why, they take and leave;
Satisfied with tat and ice cream,
And a thousand photographs of assumed imperturbability
Druids think they own me, built me, know me,
Offer reverence to that which happens far from me, in me, sometimes with me.
Not like the old ones, but alike a little;
Enough that I understand the intention without expectation.
But a million deaths could not repay each Solstice.
That I must accept miserable offerings of ring-pull, maddened drumming and urine
and the fervent assumption of worship given unlikely worth?
Oh, how I yearn to be alone!
Mark Rosher / bish 2011ce
THE END OF THE LINE
One slender line stands stretching skywards, scarcely seen to untrained eye,
One whip-like slash through wide horizons, first of sentinels, silent spy.
Listening where Glyndwr held counsel, lurking in the rock-cleft’s lee,
Sensing every breath and whisper from Plynlimon to the sea.
Here no blade of grass dares waver, no bleak fence-post strides alone,
No forester’s forgotten tree-trunk, reaching, bleaching to the bone,
Dares resist the storm-gale’s twisting. Waves of grass on heather blown,
Soft white wool-wisps sprinkled, flying shadows, peaks fey felines prowl.
No man moves. Kites, plaintive crying, wheeling where the wind-hounds howl.
Secret thus, intruder’s spying silhouette, though starkly shown
Gainst the silver lakes and skyline, neither name nor purpose known.
How it came, was brought or bidden? – Simply carried, raised, secured.
One year’s vital information, one quick tick on chic clip-board.
What bribe bought its invitation, what bare lies a traitor lured?
Stand alert! The gull-grey army, marching westwards, swords a-flail,
Claiming hilltop upon hilltop. – Who will witness, tell our tale?
‘Ware the creeping infiltration! – Neighbours, brothers – friend or foe?
Await the weeping of a nation sold for England’s cities’ glow!
Here not men nor sheep may hear it, smothered by that sighing slow.
Kite and man shall learn to fear it. – Find that look-out, lay him low!
One short signal-imperfection saved a moorland sorry fate,
One small cross , a fresh election , liberates a fledgeling state,
Or repeated sound-reflection, murmuring ‘Too late, too late!’.
One long line of wisest warriors heard the blades’ whirr from afar,
Walking by the stream’s meander, guided by the dark night’s star,
Solemn, sharing with the skylarks sights they soon may see no more,
Armed with words, with truth and beauty, fearless, flawless. – This is war!
One slow convoy, spied approaching from far precipice’s height
Feel the blast, the churning concrete, roar of conurbations’ might!
On the wild-land close encroaching. – War by day and snore by night!
One rough track, the hills defending. – Who will bar invaders’ way?
Quiet, cacophony unending, trees or truck-way, flee or stay?
Birds and bats of Ceredigion, lend your livelihoods’ delay!
Hear the saw’s incessant droning drawing nearer day by day,
See the web of wires ensnaring spread to steal your homes away!
One fine crack in ancient peatland widened by a wanton wheel,
Sixty thousand tonnes of concrete reinforced with spars of steel
Buried in the bog forever, monument to manic zeal:
Draining, drying, scooping, scarring – wounds that weep but never heal,
Still with greenhouse gases seeping, soon their sourness we shall feel!
Sunken by the sun’s sea-warming, though more monsters thrum in chant,
Needless, useless, science scorning, mock the storm-clouds’ swirl in taunt.
Heedless, blind closed-mind investors hide from profits-warnings gaunt.
One last desperate protestor knows which moans her dreams will haunt!
One battle-ground from Borth to Newtown, forests felled and strewn with grey,
Graceless, place-less, soul-less wasteland, mountains’ magic shorn away,
Waiting for the occupation’s end. – May peace prevail some day?
Months and millions, metres later, tidy upright towers grow
From a blighted bare-swept upland, land whose history none shall know.
Unlike Manx legs, its lines rotated from the rolling, wild plateau,
And industrial-mutated, yet no product yields to show.
Watch its people, landless, songless, penniless, now eastwards go!
One tall mast, the scene surveying, monitors the calm atop.
One memory, one exclamation-mark. – Beyond one line, full stop!
Woodmouse
THE SIEGE OF BEACON HILL
The wild edge of the ancient forest,
Thrusting vanguard fern
At surrendered furrows,
Sighs in alliance with the autumn wind,
Drawing breath and demarcation lines,
In bloody ochre hues.
Breathing deep,
Poised high an ominous fortress
Above an arable patchwork sea,
It spins contempt
From sycamores and mines
Margins with oak egg acorns.
It is relentless like the seasons,
Mocking the ploughs dulling edge,
Tracing its annual retreat,
Creeping inch outward
With fern ands skirmishing briar,
Securing slender bastions
For sapling wood,
And testing,
Always testing,
The human gall,
At its patient limits.
David Oldbear [Beltane 2010]
THE STONES
Guardians of the secrets of a distant past
Magnificent, enigmatic, aloof and vast,
They stand in awesome isolation, steadfast.
Hewn from stones, hauled by man,
From different parts of this ancient land,
Their purpose, still to understand.
Through ages past they stood,
Through England’s turbulent nationhood,
Forsaken, forlorn, misunderstood.
Like question marks, hung in the sky,
Their brooding presence questions why
Their priests and worshippers passed by.
Did famine, pestilence or war
Overtake their former awe
Of Gods they once swore to adore?
Aloof from the tourist’s idle chatter
From the insidious persistent camera’s clatter,
They silently unto themselves gather.
Waiting for the wheel to turn,
For mankind’s focus to return
To truths so very long unlearned.
So, as they stand aloof, maybe
It is our mutual destiny,
To stand together in perfect harmony
One day, the stones and we.
Thehollyandtheivy [Lammas 2009]
WOUND
we have been waiting a long time to return
after the young lads’ motorbikes
and the putting up of robust fences
we need space to recover
from decayed, dumped
litter, rubber, wires, scraps, bricks and linoleum
we grew round it
we grow still
reclaiming
knowing that it all comes to us in the end
we have been waiting a long time to return
we have been waiting a long time to return
sunlight trips through our leaves and branches
new, just born green glows bright
an engine stalled
laughter
a woodpecker’s continual cry of alarm
dogs scenting past, noses low
goosegrass starting its sticky climb
nettles eager to sting sharply
beware all ye who enter here
we have been waiting a long time to return
we have been waiting a long time to return
flies hover in the pots of sunlight
a flash of red through the trees
small streams of spiderweb link us all
breeze lifts the overpowering scent of new haw blossom
branches sway to our own dance in a 4/4 time
she blows a cool reply in the ear
we have been waiting a long time to return
Nina [Summer 2014]