SHRINE
Woke up this morning with these first two lines in my head, from which the rest (in seven stanzas of seven lines) flowed. No idea if it's any good but hope someone might enjoy scanning it?
Chaffinch
As I lay on my bed reminiscing times with John,
Outside a Chaffinch flew into my sight;
He landed on an Hazel twig
And in the sunlight, like a jewel shone.
I rubbed my sleepy eyes,
The better for to see this beauteous bird,
But it had flipped its wings
And in an instant – gone.
“Come back, come back”, I plead;
Too short this brief encounter.
You deign to stoop from lofty heights
On wings, to intercede and honour me.
Mixing great delight, with everlasting pain,
How passing pleasure intervenes -
A temporary thrill -
And then must fly again.
“Please stay, please stay”,
So I may see and feel,
My panting heart grow stronger,
List to my soul's appeal.
“Impossible” is nature's implacable reply,
Nothing remains or stays the same,
Such moments few and far between,
Cannot be recalled – except to memory;
I blink, the vision gone away -
All earthy joys will fade or fly.
17.5.2024
TRENGWAINTON IN MAY
The path meanders through the trees,
Soaring above in majestic splendour;
Between bamboos and evergreens,
It leads me up and under.
A tall straight Ash is being felled,
With orange noose about its trunk;
Sadly a note informs it's not exempt
From deathly 'Die-back's sad sentence.
Except 'stay clear', the notice says,
For bees are nesting in its base,
The sentence thus has been deferred,
And tree has had a day of grace.
Each tree competes, yet compliments the rest,
Learning its place and knowing what is best;
Defying natural hydrolic laws,
Conveying water to its upmost boughs.
One hundred feet above our heads,
Its green, light-dappled canopy shade those
Below, where furtive Squirrels dart
And Long-tailed Tits flit purposefully.
The people sit and wait, in silent Hide,
Comparing notes about their tree-less state back home.
“We've Sparrows” the man with northern accent notes
“And Squirrels”, the lady joyfully replies.
Wending my way, on up the gentle slope,
Each tree defines its own distinctive shape;
The mighty Redwood with its damp moss covered bark,
The no less mighty Quercus English Oak.
The wandering twos and threes, in short-sleeved shirts
And summer frocks, Look out on these in silent awe
And think that they phlegmatic, like the trees,
Reflect upon the national temperament.
A generation largely spared from war and want,
Now looking 'die-back' in the face,
Indulge themselves in life-times earned accomplishment,
Trengwainton's history, and beauteous pathways trace.
We nod and exchange polite 'Hellos',
'What lovely weather' bon homie but note,
We have not met before and never will again,
Although in Eden, this is Spring before the Fall.
Meanwhile, high up, ahead, from far-off land,
A Rhododendron screams a scarlet red,
The shrubs ablaze in contrasting tones,
Of white and pink and violet.
So on we press o'er ornate bridge and Lilly pond,
Reminiscent of Monet's many famous canvases,
Of which he never tired, nor us,
The water fall and tinkling stream inspired.
Out into the blazing sun we come,
A vast and well-kept lawn like baize,
With far-off landscape, with fields of green,
Unspoiled by brick or stone or ugly town.
And there beyond the sweep of sea and sky,
All blue with white-topped fluffy clouds,
The faint outline hint of Lizard's line, between,
The hoypoloi thus sensually seduced, enjoy,
The benefit of sweating men beneath the ground.
