Friends & Family
Some time ago my late mother wrote a poem and when she gave it to
me I said something totally banal like Thank you, its very
nice. It struck me then as very simple and sentimental; which only goes
to show what a pompous prat I was. It is simple and it is sentimental, but it
is more than that, its honest and it evokes a world that whilst it still
exists grows ever more remote. Perhaps, along with the quiet
places, this is what we are losing.
Forget Not All
Forget not the
With its pink and white blossom
Dancing a tune to the
The duck-pond, the brook,
Yellow catkins like Christmas-tree
Pale clumps of primroses,
Shy violets under the
Tiny house sparrows
Darting under the eaves.
Frisky lambs, the
Friendly people and peace.
Forget not our long, country
Winding past fields
Of long, golden corn;
Hedges of bright, red
Foxgloves and honeysuckle.
Strong horses with white, hairy
Ploughing the land
In long, straight furrows.
butterflies winging their way
Through leafy trees and
Flowers of every
The tawny owl,
Hooting all through the night.
Squirrel with his
big, bushy tail,
Storing nuts in the old, hollow tree.
Badgers, you are lucky to see.
Sly fox looking for things that are
Wood pigeon, whom all farmers hate.
Forget not our woods
tall, stately trees.
Bluebells ringing their bells
In silent tune with
Wild cowslips making a carpet of gold.
Birds of every kind
chirping and singing
All through the day.
Under the hedges clutches of
Nest peacefully and hope they are not seen.
buttercups, as gold as the sun.
Tiny, white daises so peaceful and
Pink dog-rose growing in confusion
All through the woods.
Forget not all of these.
The Horse Running
Sea of magic
Horse of surprise
A horse of many
Cantering across the shore
Until the break of dawn
more and more
So long until
Until we meet again
Ill love you forever
You make my
When I think of
I feel as though Im flying
Youre my pearl, my gem
horse of many wonders
How lonely you must be
Do you have any other
Or just me?
Blue horse of
Canters back into the sea
And disappears into the horizon
forever run free.
Screti (Aged 10 years)
shadow of an elm fingers the pages of his Hemmingway notebook,
His pen moves
in time to the song of a bird,
While the summer-scented breeze caresses his
Tears dribbling down the side of his nose, beads of rage, telling the
Of a life in words, episodes of anecdotal candour or just a
chronicle of slander?
Stories enhanced with each telling,
Are captured in
ink; committed to paper for posterity's pleasure.
Actually, no not
for the entertainment of his progeny,
More of an ovation for those who
passed this way before; so as
To do justice to their memory, lest we
Who they were, how they made our lives whole.
He closes his eyes
and sets off once more
In search of meaning; the anchor that mocked his life
and will loose him in death.
Rewriting the past, if only he could,
the crimped outline of experience and colour in the void;
hard-hearted word unspoken; yet
Untie the tongue to say what should have
There would be no regrets, no mistakes, no need for
But the memory is not the mother of invention.
Memoirs hold up
a mirror to his past
And reflect the brittle, merciless truth that cannot,
must not, be made over.
He writes from the core, with modest
Lighting the road ahead, turning his back on the path he has
And will walk again and again before the end.
that saw me into manhood
Now bear witness: I admit a debt that I can never
With lantern high, your compass took my bearing
And yet, you let me
find my own sweet way.
Upon my oath, blinded was my insight;
the truth, but did not dwell to see,
The dreams denied, the imaginings made
All so you could shine your light on me.
Demand that I repair the
hurt I caused you;
Believe that now I fully comprehend:
The price you
paid that I might follow in your footsteps
As father to your beloved