Thirty years
worn out now
resoled
so many times
but the uppers
have given out
welcomed
me each morning
now time for a rest.
Words
“Here there are carved words
On smooth milled stone,
Each letter, each word
A fragment of a life’s story
A memento to last an Eternity.
So many words worn away
By the hard edged rain
Of so many winters past.
Expressions of love, of duty done,
The reward of rest in heaven.
And the remembrance always
Of those who follow.
Followers themselves now dead
So that the grave lies forgotten.
And the words meaning lost.”
(excerpt On hearing of the death of Beryl Reuben.)
Our Lady of Penrhys
A concrete statue
Mary and child
on the place where
a wooden statue
once stood
a place of pilgrimage
in the medieval period
and before that
a celtic well
and there still grows
a Hawthorn tree
a “clutey” tree
and before that…
Stories on old stones
So young
So young
Lest we forget
those lives
And those
Bereft
Tears fall
Three children lie here
the eldest 17 months
stories written
on old gravestones
have the power
to stop you
hold your breath
with thoughts
of the sadness
of those poor parents.
With thanks Sheila!
The Valley
I was born in a valley that was hollowing itself out
Under our feet men were digging
With mandrills and charge
Stripped naked in the heat
Of the dark seams of the earth
I was born in a valley that was dying on its feet
People didn’t seem to notice
One by one the pits closed
Men were moved to other mines
But the valley was thinning.
I was born in a village at a time when deaths shadow
Still haunted the ribboned streets
I grew accustomed to the disappearance
Of men, of the disasters, the mass funerals
For those who died in the depths
Those sombre marching line of men.
I was born in a village where words such as roof-fall,
Explosions, afterdamp a build-up of gas
In the heat of that darkness
Became markers of another time another age
I was born in a place that was dying
Its soul waving I’m leaving, you staying?
Taking Hold
Take the chance
Take hold
Sometimes life
Makes the most
Of the situation.
The Book Day
Three boxes suddenly appeared
on the living room floor
Books cleared from a child’s room
Boxes filled with old friends
Books bought so long ago
So now my writing desk is surrounded
As I renew our acquaintance
Lorca’s Poet in New York.
Cesare Paves’s The Political Prisoner.
Opening the yellow pages
of Among Women Only
I catch the scent of the days
I worked in the steel works
And read it over and over again
on the way home on the train.
Rescuing is a goodness of its own
The dog had woken and was restless
And you said in the dark it’s an owl
Of course the dog knew differently
And persisted licking the fingers
Of my hand to waken me
Out of that place of deep darkness.
I followed her down over the stairs
And saw the cat play with the bird
And then dart away from the fluttering
In the curtain and the distressed sound
Of a small bird alone and confused
I took it in a quick actioned grasp
And felt its heart beating fast
In the darkness I felt its wings
And stretched each leg to ascertain
That none of those small bones
Were bitten through or broken
Then I let it loose and heard it flutter
And it flew away into the darkness.
Rescuing is a goodness of its own.
