I stopped watching the news after the third week of decimating death and morbid press briefings it had become statistically gratuitous
instead, I watched the playing fields opposite the front door start to overgrow welcoming back the wild things –
discarded council lawns no longer littered by kids from the secondary school and couples walking their dogs –
I observed the radiant whimsy in a family of deer frivolous in the pre-dawn haze dancing among the tall grass rose-gold fur in soft focus
impressive were the foxes drifting around the wildflower verges almost hidden in the dusky milk-light gorging on the rodents next-doors cat couldn’t catch
I chuckled at lopping chestnut-hares darting among the hedgerow scaring the bullfinches from the rosehips and brambles
until now I never really appreciated the nurturing noises of nature notably the cresting and chirruping birdsong against the percussive branches of council-planted beech trees
ever since opening the door to the nurture of nature
– life feels gratuitous.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem, written about something positive that happened during the peak of Corona in the UK. I hope you enjoyed. As always,feel free to leave a comment I love reading and replying.
I remember how my hand fit into yours with welcoming ease and the warmth of your skin heated my tepid fingers as we walked along the beach
the North Sea was trembling with chilling intensity – as we skimmed stones plucked fresh from champagne-gold sand they wisped over waves their light friction warming the water and calming the sea
I told a joke about blushing lobsters and seaweed you laughed because it was so bad and the frame of your face lit up the dusky sky better than the distant hilltop fire beacons could ever hope to
I’m hoping this has all has gone to plan – that some years have passed – and our hands still fit each others that the message I buried in this bottle is not lost to the tide like so many other romances and we’re reading this in the spot where we sat and snuggled that night stargazing at the peach-kissed setting sun on the horizon
– because I know that I will love you forever.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem dedicated to my beautiful wife, Christine.
Opportunity rasped repeatedly at my door knuckles bloodied, bruised and broken until they were incapable of knocking again I chose to open up once silence fell with head bowed I took it’s palms in mine and healed sores with words ‘Why didn’t you answer ?‘ Opportunity asked and in my mind the truth was told – ‘there are far more deserving than I‘.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem. I hope you enjoyed it. If opportunity knocks, always answer because it may take you to places you could only dream about.
I remember the things I learned watching Grandstand on Saturday afternoons at my Great Grandad’s house like the rules of snooker, darts and horse racing how to pick a winning horse out the newspaper (look at the jockey) sound like Woody the Woodpecker how to use a mangle to dry out clothes still steaming from the old washing machine I found that snuff tobacco was minty and cured a sniffle that I preferred my squash diluted and scotch eggs and ‘black bullets‘ are the food of kings The most important thing he taught me and many others – was kindness.
Although Grandstand Saturdays came to an end I still keep what I learnt sacred in my mind and heart except the food I eat that.
Thanks for taking the time to read my poem. A little letter to my Great Grandad who used to have me round when I was a kid.
of filter coffee and croissants warm and buttery lazily absorbing Saturday’s news through inked fingers and papercuts whilst audibly inhaling songs from the twentieth century we wear chunky scratching knits and chunkier cotton socks that fill well worn walking shoes with rusted suede uppers we fill noisy metal bottles with water filtered through plastic beads then tightly pack them into a roll away backpack awaiting adventure that beckons from paths littered with burnt leaves and forest floor detritus our casual meandering scored with the sound of mulching mud under rubber soles the scurry of squirrels and swaying branches memories made and recorded in 16:9 high definition then the return voyage home in time to prep a veritable feast but that’s a ritual, i’ll keep to myself.
Thanks for taking your time to read this poem. I love hearing your thoughts and any feedback you may have.