On a visit to Dorset early last summer we came upon a swing beneath a tree in a meadow of the sort you only find in England: a yellow and pink counterpane of wild flowers stretching as far as the eye could see.
I treated myself to a few moments rocking back and forth in a relatively sedate manner as befits a member of the older generation and thought back fondly to the headstrong way I rode swings when I was fearless and young.
THE SWING
As we launch out, the air feels clean,
the wooden swing, a pendulum
divining or recording time,
as sunlight stabs, pure platinum,
through woodland chestnut, cedar, lime,
into our playground, softly green.
It takes our joint weight on taut ropes
as we, in tandem, drive it on,
gathering momentum, we rise:
you grip the seat I brace upon
with boots, knees, adolescent thighs
and boundless, adolescent hopes.
The swing is like a storm-tossed boat,
the wood’s a bold kaleidoscope
of light, leaf patterns, soaring dreams.
I shout within the cradle-ropes,
the sound extinguishing your screams.
Free from confining earth, we float.
Guernsey's spring seems already well advanced, with daffodils and primroses abundant in every lane. Soon the trees will be in leaf.
SPRING
Green mariners, young leaves soft as skin,
are gathering before a tall tree’s mast.
A bright, fresh crew,
they have a season’s voyage ahead
to learn the ropes.
They will return, old salts:
brown-parchment-skinned,
rum-soaked,
no wiser than before.
In today's fast-paced world, there's a temptation to take others at face value, swiftly categorise then dismiss them, rarely taking time to learn their history or background.
REFUGEE
Overhead lights, bright in a white room;
a masked regiment around me
at my command.
In timeless hush, I work:
my steady hand and shining blade
make neat incisions, cut out
tumours, like blind, destructive moles.
It’s done. Eyes, above masks, are joyful.
The patient lives.
That was before...
Today, I wear a white coat in a bright room.
Around me, pale unmasked faces,
that have not witnessed war,
ignore my requests.
In harsh, obliterating noise, I work
steadily with shining blade.
My practiced hand
cuts pizzas into segments
that do not bleed.
I'm an admirer of the work of Cornwall's greatest poet, the late Charles Causley, and have recently finished reading an excellent biography about him by Laurence Green.
When Jane and I spent several weeks in Cornwall last year, we visited the town of Launceston, where Causley was born, and the cemetery where he is buried.
I wrote this poem, Blackberries, having just returned one morning from walking a friend's dog on the coastal path above Port Isaac.
BLACKBERRIES
Carrying home, in cupped hands,
a clutch of blackberries, freshly picked,
I marvel at the morning light,
high-circling gulls,
the puzzled stares of cattle at a gate.
Beneath a Causley-Cornish sky
I struggle to complete this poem
and wonder would that placid man
(schoolmaster, poet, balladeer)
have made allowances, ignored
blackberry stains like ink-blots on
my hapless, hopeless, homework page
and, with a not unkindly look,
have handed back my jotting book?
Here's a lighthearted, short story for the #Me Too era.
KARMA
When he was born, Maurice’s worst fears were realised. Reincarnation wasn’t a myth after all.
Maurice had been reincarnated. As a dog.
It wasn’t bad at first. Being a puppy was a heady tumble of warmth, fun and sweet milk. But all that was rudely whipped away. An elderly woman bought him and started imposing RULES.
Maurice had to wee on newspaper. He liked that. It was the Guardian not the Telegraph, Maurice’s newspaper of choice in his former life.
When he forgot and wee-d on rugs and carpets, the woman shrieked like a banshee and chased Maurice, now renamed Boo-Boo, round the kitchen.
Servility was not to Boo-Boo’s liking. When he’d been Maurice, people had cowered at his feet.
An alpha-male, he’d been a swaggering bully, intoxicated by power. He’d made enemies: men he’d destroyed; women he’d crushed.
From youth until horny old age, Maurice had taken what he wanted and damn the consequences. He’d always had his way with women, whether they liked it or not.
He remembered young Jill Fowler, barely eighteen yet annoyingly resistant.
He’d had to force the little bitch but he was sure she’d enjoyed it in the end.
I bloody well hope so, thought Maurice, she was, after all, the very last one.
The next morning he’d strolled onto the golf course and Bang!
Massive bloody coronary. End of story.
Except it wasn’t.
Here he was again: reborn as Boo-Boo and something odd was happening. His owner was handing him to a stranger in a white coat.
Don’t worry, Miss Fowler, the strange man was saying.
Castration’s quite straightforward. Boo-Boo will be right as rain in no time.
