Nose-deep in a rose,
inhalation tumbles me
back
in time.
–
Small hands greedily
pluck rose petals
cram them into
jam jars
add water
and wait.
Next day
we dab on perfume,
glorying in the
short lived
scent
of summer.
Category: Poems
Winter sleep
New snow blankets a wall
which is the summer home
of one of the garden slow worms.
And right now, somewhere deep
in hidden parts of the garden
slow worms are curled up,
hibernating.
Do they switch off like a computer
one cool day in autumn
and switch back on in spring,
unaware of the passing of time?
Or do they slumber,
conscious of the seeping cold,
burrowing further below rocks,
pulling leaves over like a duvet
before sinking deeper into winter sleep?
And do they dream?
Snowdrops
Snowdrops punctuate the January gloom.
Each year I am lifted by
this ordinary miracle.
I wrote this a few years ago. This year the snowdrops are even more welcome than usual.
Lockdown Days
I bob along on a stream of days
which blend and blur and
disappear
into the past.
Days without shape.
My normally tight grasp
on the calendar
slips,
and I am prone to moments
of disorientation,
wondering
‘Should I be working today?’
‘Am I supposed to be in a meeting right now?’
‘What exactly did I do last weekend?’
The future is full of haze and mirage,
the horizon obscured by fog.
More than ever,
the only thing that seems real
is this one
peaceful
ever present
moment.
Seeds
A parcel I ordered arrived today
full of vegetable seeds
and hope.
I am enjoying planning what I am going to grow this year and really looking forward to planting those seeds. Not yet though, it’s too cold. 🌨️
Word of the year
Have you seen those blog posts
suggesting that you find
an inspiring word
for the year ahead?
So far, all I can think of is
‘hibernate’.
It would be nice to sleep
until spring this year!
Signs of the light returning
The first few
white buds
of snowdrops
emerge
from frozen ground,
as lengthening
hazel catkins bring
a touch of yellow
to the hedgerows.
The evening stretches out
just a little,
and on those days when
winter cold recedes
slightly,
the birds sing
a different song,
louder,
livelier,
a prelude to spring.
It takes a while after the shortest day before I start to notice the light returning, reflected in the first few snowdrops and the changes in birdsong.
Snow, frost and silvery light have been a feature of my local walks recently. Now we are back in lockdown I’m walking the same local routes daily, and feeling grateful to live in such a beautiful part of the world.
Tea break
Sheltering from
the cool north wind,
I share this bench,
and the last rays
of summer sun,
with a dragonfly.
Garden meditation
No need to remember a technique,
fire up an app
or take a class.
Just go into the garden
and do what needs to be done.
A bit of weeding,
tidying the greenhouse,
watering tomatoes and cucumbers,
(there is always something
that needs attention).
Simply do the work,
at its own pace.
When the time is right,
find a spot to rest,
perhaps with a cup of tea.
Thoughts come,
(summer fresh butterflies dance between flowers)
thoughts go,
(there are a lot of dewy cobwebs around)
thoughts come,
(the asters are starting to flower)
thoughts go,
(I can still hear the swallows).
If these stones could talk
‘Cloth ears’, my mum used to call me
when I got selectively deaf about an instruction,
or when I was absorbed with my nose in a book.
‘Oi, cloth ears!’. I’m talking to you.’
And it’s only recently I realized
where the phrase came from.
Mill workers, deafened by the roar of machinery ,
young ears, damaged beyond repair,
cotton cloth in exchange for hearing.
–
I am thinking of all this
as I trudge up the steep slopes of Ingleborough
on a path made of old stone slabs
taken, I’m told, from the local mills
when they closed down,
repurposed, protecting
feet from bog, and bog from feet.
–
For a moment my feet
connect with those
who trod these stones
over a century ago.
Day after day,
year after year,
toiling at the loom.
–
The wind sighs and a raven croaks,
the path twists through a soundscape,
that they could only imagine.
Life in the Fresh Air 