When you met me I was swimming in
Jacob’s Creek.
You fished me out and put me to
Work
In fields I had long neglected.

Who would have believed
(Certainly not me)
That when the harvest came
It could come so good
So properly?

My mythical Indian summer, ha!
For once there is plenty, see?
Cold winter winds pose not the threat they did.
Arms are opened in
Abundance.

You are
Staple to me now;
I am
intoxicated, lifted by your level-headedness;
We are
Fat as tame things.

It’s strange that we are inland people now
Settled I suppose, by still water or by none.
We share a seaside tale silently
Recall crusty sand ridges on a winter beach
Out before anyone, the three of us
No running, grateful for the wave crash
Willing the herring gulls to cry.
She, the littlest, drives at the breakwater
There’s a gannet isn’t it, isn’t it.
She, the eldest, spotted the car leave
Wheeled us round like dancers
Eyes up and straight ahead
Hand in hand in hand.

Now at the rare get-together
We send up signals by the beach
Coy and earnest, pretending not to pretend
Grateful for the distraction
There’s a gannet isn’t it.

In days long past when few were taught
and written words oft seldom seen
The teller during missions wide
used rhythmic form for ears keen
To ease recall and passage on
His news and tales of what had gone.
onset all verse in poetry
When poetic verse did come to be
from Lyricist�s, Bards and Rhymer�s wise
Such elegant prose in harmony

Alas sad times in this moment now
Poetic rhyme lost to common decree.
With little thought by poets new
Who write their thoughts without a clue
Of how poetic verse should really sound
and lift our souls to higher ground.

Winter winds blow outside my window,
The streets lie silent, not a single stir,
As I lie here in this lonely prison
Of a body that is wracked in pain.
Is that death I hear that taps the window
Or will daylight bring a sweet surprise?

Spring winds blow and fill the world with gladness,
Vibrant colours everywhere I see,
Maybe there’s a chance, a hope, a whisper
Of better times ahead for you, for me.

Summer heat, surgeon’s knife, then the long awaiting;
Heart feels faint, I can scarcely breathe;
Suddenly dialysis is started;
Will I make it, dare I yet believe?

Patiently I wait in expectation
Until a glimpse, a ray of light I see
Shining just beyond the long dark tunnel;
Thank you, God, I believe in Thee.

She counts the pebbles on the shore
while mothers rest to tend their young.
She gathers wishes from the waves,
and holds a shell to hear its song

while mothers rest to tend their young.
The woman calls each pup by name
as golden shadows steal the light:
they ride the surf and skim the foam.

She gathers wishes from the waves
and stores them in a mermaid’s purse,
beneath the glowing harvest moon.
The woman sighs, then checks her tears

and holds a shell to hear its song:
the creatures stretch their flippered fur.
They twitch, then slip and slide away:
she counts the pebbles on the shore.

Summer on the turn autumn at the gate
Biblical apple hangs in forbidden orchard
Lovers union surfs the sea of passion
Shore laps my heals as I turn to face a new horizon
A single tear spills chilled by harsh breeze
Where dreams once danced now sadness holds my hand.
Cherished fondness for a time will never diminish
Countless moons have honored my desires and held my heart.
We have baked cakes, walked Berlin�s streets, shared our naked bodies.
The brutal reality brings the curtain down on a play never acted.
Centre stage the foolish of clowns dressed in his own illusion
Wrapped in loneliness hangs a painted canvass from a deluded mind
Barbed wire surrounded dreams hope ebbing on a thousand streams
Grains of sand through frozen hands slip silently to the floor
Lovers search remains a trap, a risk once more

Château Lafite

The cork pops out with a satisfied sigh.
The sommelier angles the bottle
His white gloved hands caress
And hold the neck with gentle fingers.
I inspect the label; nod and wait.
The candles flicker, as a gentle breeze
Insinuates itself through drifting curtains
Begging us to observe the night
With a moon so full its whiteness dazzles.
The sommelier sips from his tiny cup,
Pauses; a smile hovers across his lips
Inviting me to join him.
I swirl, and sniff the priceless liquid in my glass,
Its power is intense.
“To you, my darling, for forty wonderful years.”
Two glasses raise and clink,
Starry eyes meet across ruby reflections.
The sommelier pads silently away.
His contribution to this perfect Anniversary celebration
Is complete.

A good year.

It’s a bumper year, for garden and farm,
Everything’s turned out sweet.
The weather in June was sunny and calm,
Wonderfully dry misty heat.

There’s twice as much yield of crops in the field,
And that’s in Warwickshire alone,
So imagine the pile of food that’s in store
No-one should have cause to moan.

Tomatoes piled high on the windowsill,
Fridge filled with large runner beans.
Long pointed chillies glisten and wait.
To be picked either red or green.

There’s just one thing that spoilt it for me,
A proud old uncle passed on. While I’m remembering, thinking of him,
The year he went was a good one.

Dancing in late summer breezes,
fronds ripple life through standing grain till machines
crawl the fields and harvest greedily from brittle stalks.

We tracked your growth against a measure
strong limbs, sound heart: our treasure

Trembling on the edge of autumn, plump berries cling
among thorns till clever fingers part leaves, probe
the shade and harvest greedily from hedgerows.

We kept you close from curious eyes
but he found a way to loose the ties

Shivering in early winter frosts, late apples host the
migrant flocks till folk prop ladders against its
laden branches, and harvest greedily from the tree.

We let you go to love and roam,
our dearest harvest: now from home

Gleaming their jewel bright colours through the shade,
jams and jellies sit with rich chutney till cooks plunder
larder shelves and harvest greedily from last year’s bounty.

We waited for the call and wondered what to bring
to you and him; and him: new life in the spring.

Juicy fat grapes swing from the vine
Waiting and waiting, please turn me to wine
Only the best are picked for you
The rejects litter the ground, my shoe
Red ones, purple ones, white ones as well
Which to choose from the choice is swell
Finally plucked and squashed right down
Juices extracted, at the skins we frown
Bottled and capped and sent to you and I
To be drunk and drunk under an Autumn sky
Whatever your tipple, you may agree
Wine is what makes people feel free.

Well, it’s so gorgeous, harvest, isn’t it?
Wisps of smoke-drugged air, whispers of excess;
an orgy of plenty before the frost bites hard.
We’re seduced by golden pumpkins, plump flesh
ballooning the skin, pumped-up, packed with promise;
or silk velvet grapes, as slippy as sex,
hand-picked and squeezed for wine.

Everything’s so damn round it’s hard to know
just where to look: innocent shopping trips
take on the furtive feel of top-shelf porn
when there’s such stuff, so shamelessly displayed:
a lush embarrassment of fruit and veg,
each nestling snug with a come-hither look
in lacy, peek-a-boo leaves.

And the perfumes! Late blooming jasmine;
second-flush roses; the heavy throb of plum juice
that smears fingers like a stained-glass blush.
They swamp the head, drowse it thick with scent.
I really think it shouldn’t be allowed,
autumn. It spurs the young, disturbs the old,
pierces the heart sharper than

spring rain on split seed: sweetness in a ball,
and near to bursting with the ripeness of it all!

Now once again country roads are calling and my old boots are full of holes
And I have carved a secret green symbol behind a sign on the East Lancs Road
I’m leaving Salford, I’ll head for Bootle, forgotten now winter’s hungry days
I’ll sharpen knives or I’ll edge your scissors I’ll polish sunshine to pay my way

Where did my youth go? I can’t recall it but it was glorious, each day that passed,
I slept in flowerbeds along the roadside or in the arms of a pretty lass
With her it was my delight to dally the scent of Spring in her lap it lay,
I only sharpened her knives and scissors but I got sunshine, and paid my way

For I was only a crazy tinker. without a home or a resting place,
A petty thief, or a puppy stealer and farmers slammed their gate in my face
So self-important, they knew their roots were planted in rich and fertile earth
I sharpened knives and I sharpened scissors I polished sunshine and knew my worth

At that time poteen belonged to all men, ‘twas cheap and cheerful, and bitter, too!
The plants to spice it grew at the roadside they gave some colour to every brew
Oh, drinking brothers, Oh late night singers you drank yourselves to an early grave
But I kept sharpening knives and scissors and plucked absinthe on Midsummer’s Day

Those who work daily will always judge me, a roving tinker who travels light,
But I’m a poet, and I’m a dreamer, and I’m a part of the summer nights
There are so many much better poets, compared with them, I’m not worth a thing
But I can sharpen their knives and scissors and thank them kindly to let me sing

Where are you now all those whom I once knew? Each pretty girl, every alehouse mug?
Half of you ended in Institutions the rest died, drowned by the bottle’s glug
But I am still hale and fresh and hearty!! My hair’s turned white, and my nose is red!
While I still sharpen my knives and scissors and polish sunshine to earn my bread

Now once again country roads are calling and my old boots are full of holes
And I have carved a secret green symbol behind a sign on the East Lancs Road
I’m leaving Salford, I’ll head for Bootle, forgotten now winter’s hungry days
I’ll sharpen knives or I’ll edge your scissors I’ll polish sunshine to pay my way

Where did my youth go? I can’t recall it but it was glorious each day that passed
I slept in flowerbeds along the roadside or in the arms of a pretty lass
With her it was my delight to dally the scent of Spring in her lap it lay
I only sharpened her knives and scissors but I got sunshine, and paid my way

For I was only a crazy tinker. without a home or a resting place, A petty thief, or a puppy stealer and farmers slammed their gate in my face
So self-important, they knew their roots were planted in rich and fertile earth
I sharpened knives and I sharpened scissors I polished sunshine and knew my worth

At that time poteen belonged to all men, ‘twas cheap and cheerful, and bitter, too!
The plants to spice it grew at the roadside they gave some colour to every brew
Oh, drinking brothers, Oh late night singers you drank yourselves to an early grave
But I kept sharpening knives and scissors and plucked absinthe on Midsummer’s Day

Those who work daily will always judge me, a roving tinker who travels light,
But I’m a poet, and I’m a dreamer, and I’m a part of the summer nights
There are so many much better poets, compared with them, I’m not worth a thing
But I can sharpen their knives and scissors and thank them kindly to let me sing

Where are you now all those whom I once knew? Each pretty girl, every alehouse mug?
Half of you ended in Institutions the rest died, drowned by the bottle’s glug
But I am still hale and fresh and hearty!! My hair’s turned white, and my nose is red!
While I still sharpen my knives and scissors and polish sunshine to earn my bread

Third Autumn

Equinox and summers ended
Mist now hides the hunting Owl
Stooks and bails, sheaves and stacks
Landscape puts on winter’s cloak
Shorn sheep move to hills from levels
Fruit of field and vineyard gathered
Bramleys, Coxes, Quince and Grape
Quilted hedgerows, rosehip bramble
Bottled pickled jammed and chutneyed,
all preserved and winter stored.

Then on St. Michael and All Angels
Comes the meeting of the year
Spiced ginger pumpkin pies are counted
Extra large Third Autumn pie
For village folk will be rewarded
At the coming feast of feasts
From the hamlets from the farmsteads
Burcott Godney Worth and Yarley
From the village from the Parish
Wookey Bleadney Panborough Coxley

So with baskets brimming over
Up the Callow hill they climb
All to join in celebration
At Great Henton Harvest Supper Time.

Son,
The gigabytes of green blackberries
Stacked down Devon lanes this summer
Must now be nearly ripe.
For three weeks, camping there, we grew too
Lived round fires, under meteors, on the hill
Learning old traditions by discovering the new
We paddled our canoe and sailed down the river
With virtually no technology.
Now back home, even the pot of jam from Eden
In the fridge, is almost done.
Where’s it all gone, son, where’s our harvest?
We can go back you say, OK, and keep in touch
With those we liked –
Seeds were planted and we’ll help them to grow,
We could also sow our own though – why not?
Real earth, real digging, real potatoes?
Real rabbits – I know, we’d need deep fencing
To keep them out – But if we really want to conserve – Maybe we need a gun, son!

The things I did when I was young
weren’t always right,
sometimes wrong.
A little care, a training climb.
A little nourishment
for my mind.
Stepping back
and speaking well,
acknowledging I’d still to grow.
Through storms and droughts
the kinks appeared.
A little rust around the ear.
The odd black spot and
slug chomped leaf.
Flowers lost.
A time to grieve.
But new fruit comes
ripe and whole.
I reap those times
now I am old.

Elms are flared with yellow;
Oaks turn bronze;
Mist swirls along the furrow;
The year grows old.
And the beech trees stand
Root-deep in discarded gold.
I, squirrel-like secrete
About the hollows of my mind
Jewels
To hang upon the world
At other times
When all within
Is uniformly grey,
When poetry fades
And reason
Faces the light of day.
But words cannot retain
Such images;
Only their ghosts remain,
Reminding me how
Through the autumn mist
I prayed involuntary prayers
Of gratitude
To gods that did not exist.

I’m watching Rigoletto, and I’m drinking cheap red wine.
The kind you buy in boxes at seven ninety nine.
And then I get to thinking, the kind of wine am drinking
Is not the kind of grape you mean when you talk of harvest-time.

I’m drinking rot gut whisky, whilst I watch La Traviata.
And the label says in Gaelic that it’s Scottish Fire water.
And now I’ve started laughing, cause the whisky that I’m quaffing.
Is not the grain you celebrate, when you think of harvest-time.

So I’ll watch Il Trovatore, or something else by Verdi.
I’ll drink lager from the Netherlands although it’s rough and ready.
And though it’s just not cricket, I will tell you where to stick it.
All your poetry of grape and grain, just cos’ it’s harvest-time.

You’ll be curious, undoubtedly, saying what’s his inspiration?
Is it brandy, stout or cider? Or some other distillation.
Well cheap booze is always popular, and even Italian Opera!
Is easier to write about than bloody “harvest-time!”

“There’s nothing in the store today,
The Indus rose and washed away
The grain we might have gathered in
Had we been pure and free from sin.”

“Why would you think like that, my son?
You’re but a child, and how could one
So small and innocent as you
Imagine such a thing is true?”

“Because our God is very good
And would not steal the children’s food,
It follows that I must be bad
To be deprived of all I had.”

“Not you my child, but all mankind
Has nature’s bounty so maligned,
And the poison that is dripping in
Is certainly a kind of sin –

But not one you could understand,
The rape and pillage of the land,
The exploitation of resources,
The tampering with nature’s forces.

But the harvest that is washed away
Or burnt, or parched or rotted may
Yet be a warning we can heed,
To stem the tide of endless greed.”

between the seasons
silence sings

winds waltz streets
twirl dried leaves
past wooden skeletons
of summery canvas walls.

long shadows inch vacant
streets, meander trails on empty
beaches, waves ebb halcyon days.

whispers tease behind the veil
illusions lace one another

stiff foam rides the breeze
refuse the swept back to sea,
memories spin
on fragile layers,
elusive edges.

nature sings our hymns
air comforts water
water baptizes earth
earth embraces fiery spirit
times fade to distant shores.

Inside our cottage was grey
yet it was too warm to clear the hearth.

We sat without light
in front of us the window, a black screen
as we listened to distant crickets tick.

At eight o’clock the moon arrived
in the corner of the square

and started to creep over
hills dishevelled by summer’s harvest,
making yellow stubble gleam
as if it was embarrassed to shine too bright.

Now we still watch this home cinema
closing fingers on the arms of our chairs,
willing the moon to avoid clouds
that drift from an indistinct horizon.

I feel bereft.
The last swallow has left the empty field.
And yet, stored away like rosy apples for the winter
I have a flock
skimming shimmering golden corn
bursting with the miracle of growth.

When the world looks ugly, I’ll remember sunflowers,
close my ears to Chaos and listen to Nature’s peace.
Let us plant love in the wastes of fruitless war
and gather in every kind word
for our future store.

See beyond the dark threatening clouds.
Expect a miracle.

When I’m an elder and old,
I’ll be mighty dang bold.
I’ll walk with a cane with a tip
That pops out a sword;
Don’t mess with me. I’m old.

I won’t care what I wear
anywhere.

If my body is a shame I’ll just say,
“So turn away.”
When I sleep on the plane, I’ll drool and I’ll snore,
and others can blot my fuzzy chin.
I’ll drink when I like and eat what I want.
But it’s politicians I’ll taunt.

I’ll talk loud and pretend deafness,
Ignore useless drivel from those who bore.
I’ll be like a Queen, elegant and royal
but I’ll still be me, like I’ve always been.
Just More SO.

They appeared at the back door
Small bare bodies smudged purple.
Look, we changed colour.
I looked.
Smeary stained smiles.
Delighted hands held up for my attention,
Bellies full and round.
Behind them I saw the tree
Heavy with fruit and bright wide leaves.
The mulberries were finally ripe.

Photograph by Caitlin Cowie. caitlincowie.com

September hush rests on a breeze that blows cooler;
Starts memory flowing of gentle days spent
Sunshine is weaker, but still has a presence,
Days that were given, not knowing they’re lent

Back flow the memories of love sweetly captured;
Of birth and great joy and of people who cared.
Soothing, the atmosphere plays like a love song
Unknowing the sweetness, the soul it has bared.

Children, still holding the hands of experience;
Places that hold your heart still in their hand.
Breathe in the feelings that sift through your fingers
Each precious, but lost now, like small grains of sand

Live life again before Autumn’s surrender
Sing out the music that’s gifted to all
Let your heart fly as it calls back the echoes
Remember and smile as you watch acorns fall.

Filled to the brim, heavy baskets of seed
Cruel the taskmaster fuelling my need
my eyes search the heavens for a promise of rain
but the sun scoffs and taunts in haughty disdain.

Years of drought, cracked soil holding seed
Dreams of life dying slowly in the heat and the glow
Only crumbs on the plate, little wine in my cup
And slowly, but surely, filled with doubt, I give up.

The fields remain barren no reward for my toil
I feel my strength waning my courage has gone
till finally I shout loud : I’ve had it, ENOUGH!
then fling forth the baskets, scatter seeds in the air
on wings of hot wind they fall everywhere.

A rumble above precedes something wet
I wipe at my tears then realize its rain
torrents of water to soften the soil
fresh smell in the air, my soul is refreshed
so strange that it came now, just as I gave up.

Not long and the seeds I flung forth in my doubt
Start growing and yield a bountiful crop
“One second it took for God to change all
Don’t look at the sun rather watch the seed fall”.

The people who were wise, vivid and tall,
Who cared for me and taught me how to live,
Now vulnerable appear (how frail and small!)
And need from me today all I can give.
Those heroes of my childhood years decline,
Fall by the way, as weary voyagers must;
Ripe fruit of years hangs heavy on their vine.
Now I their love repay, return their trust.
Their nurturing was given without cost:
I drank all that their wise hearts could contain.
I was a thirsty child and winter’s frost
Had yet to cool my glass of spring champagne.
How powerful is love, how generous,
That we respond to those who cherished us

October; when the last horse chestnuts fall,
some still in their spiny green coats.
You called me prickly, when I sulked last night.
I fell out with this year, you know:

I found grey hair, I put on weight,
the house; ten months for sale,
remained unsold; My lover nearly died,
whilst an acquaintance longed for death;
planned it meticulously;

No one could stop her.

On my doorstep, yellow begonias
still hang in vibrant bloom..
A thorny rosebush lets me pick
overripe rose hips for the jam I love,
pricks my finger, mixing blood and sap
with all the horror of a fairy-tale,
the story of my life; I wear my many spines,
some blunted, the seams split…

Beneath a chestnut tree I find
an oiled, brown nut; I carry it,
a perfect inner thing, within myself,
a shiny thing, to light me through the months.
You have less need for all those inner things,

for you protect so many of your shells.

Dos cerveza por favour in De K’ffe,
Cold bite of the first beer refreshes.
Una mas and workday fades to dull,
The night feels bright and hopeful,
The Palitos de pollo satisfies hunger.
Conversation flows to Cepas de Altura,
Three bottles later the stories repeat,
Groundhog day of interesting lives,
With eternal friendship in every bottle.
Six corks line up like truth bullets,
In an aggression of arguments,
Maybe he has just said too much,
Friendship of an unremembered hug,
Next day sorry and failings forgotten.

Fat as thumbs,
bursting like bombs
on the back of my tongue!
And the juice!
Oh the juice!
So bitterly sweet,
dribbling down chins,
splashing on cheeks.
Staining fingers purple and red
and though I’ve heard it said,
the devil from heaven when cast
cursed the fruit as he fell past,
I don’t believe a word!
It’s quite simply absurd
for a fruit so utterly fine
to be anything but divine!
And if heaven’s gate is open to me,
I hope the angels have blackberries for tea!