BIRDWATCHING

Churchgoing was an integral part of my childhood: a weekly ordeal that I'm glad to have left behind with things like Santa Claus and the Tooth-Fairy. 

One small consolation of these Sunday outings was the opportunity to observe my fellow attendees in all their sartorial elegance. The Italians have their Passeggiata: Presbyterians, in the days of my youth, showed off their finery at church on Sunday mornings.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

Like starlings in a close-knit flock,

they swoop then gather in the pews

before the vicar in his smock,

a rook-like man of sombre hues.

Then children cluster, sparrow-pert,

up in the front row, noisily.

The boys look bored while young girls flirt

and fluff their feathers quietly.

A magpie-person sits alone:

his elegant, eye-catching suit

draws comment from a starling clone.

From lakeside comes a nervous coot

and, hardly noticed, now a wren

flits in, her costume copper-bright.

She bows and chirps a soft amen,

her small head cocked, her tail upright.

A couple, blackbirds by their look,

respectively in black and brown,

receive a stern nod from the rook

as they arrive and settle down

then one plump robin, always late,

red-cheeked and jaunty, hurries in.

His redness serves to recreate

the blood of Christ that conquers sin.

A choir of larks begins to sing

the old, familiar, Hymnal words

and all join in, their voices ring 

for they are full of joy, these birds

that, somehow, find a place to perch

in this strange aviary, the church.

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SAMARITANS

Most people, religious or not, know the story of The Good Samaritan. This poem, I suppose, counts as a modern version of that ancient tale.

ANGELS

We helped him up and steadied him,

saw his wild eyes, spoke soothingly.

You took his arm, his state was grim, 

and smiled, nodded approvingly.

Though taciturn, he made it clear

he simply wished to disappear.

We took him home. He lived nearby:

a tall, unlighted terraced place. 

He went inside, without goodbye,

and now I can’t recall his face

but that night, passing, it was right

to minister as angels might.

THAT SINKING FEELING

This unrhyming poem, written nearly a decade ago, was inspired from a family story, probably mythical as many such tales are, but memorable and much repeated throughout the years.

INCIDENT AT LOUGHBRICKLAND 

A young man in a rowing boat,

oars raised, resting on still water,

casts overboard a single line

then settles back to let the sun

warm his pale face. His eyes reflect

an unflawed sky, grown more blue yet

as his boat bobs on a broad pond,

itself reflecting the awesome,

hungering, endlessness above.

At the broad pond’s edge, wild geese rise

in a rasp of noise, from tall reeds.

He turns his face to meet the sound,

that spreads outwards like a spillage,

and sees something, perhaps nothing,

rise then dip beneath the surface:

a fish perhaps, no, not a fish,

out there, where only fish should be,

a shapelessness, a shapeless shape.

He rubs his eyes; the sky goes dark,

then, when he opens them again,

sunlight, like a shower of needles,

makes him blink and he sees a shape

rear like a horse in the water,

its head and neck, black as bog-oak,

its watery mane like tendrils

of some obscure, aquatic plant.

It dives again and vanishes

as he sits spellbound, oars at rest,

dumfounded in the rocking boat,

the witching woods and shingle shore

so distant now. A shiver hits

the hull, something unnatural

disturbs the balance of the craft:

it sways and tips, his fishing rod

slips overboard; the sky and sun

suddenly tilt and what he hears

is the wild geese, their raucous din,

as water thunders round his head.

Cold, it fills his ears to bursting, 

stifles his cry, makes wild his hair.

His eyes stare into spreading green

as, down, he tumbles like a stone

into a net of water-weed,

that grips him, cleaves and interweaves,

and thus, ensures he never leaves.

FLIGHT OF FANCY

Trawling through the archives I found this one, reappraised it, and decided to publish it here, if only for the striking image that inspired it.

MAIDEN FLIGHT

Empty shoes left on the pavement,

in a shimmering hiatus,                                                     
liberated, floating, weightless, 

free from gravity's enslavement,

she looks down, her winged heart leaping
at the sight of cars and people,
chimney-pots and chapel steeple,
and the snail of traffic creeping.

Strong her wings feel, air uplifting,
slight her body, breathless, easeful,
far above a fog of diesel,
on warm currents, lifting, drifting.

Empty shoes left on the pavement.

Time stands still. She climbs forever,

wafted like a wind-blown feather,

free from gravity’s enslavement.

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MORE CREATURES GREAT AND SMALL

After a series of weather-related shipping delays, the eagerly awaited sequel to Barking Mad has finally arrived and will be available shortly.

Here’s a beta-reader review of Stark Raving Bonkers from Goodreads. 

“I loved Barking Mad, the previous novel by Jane Mosse, and was sad to say goodbye to the lovable pet-sitters, Chris and Rob, whose misadventures had proved so amusing. What a joy it was to discover that they’re back again in Stark Raving Bonkers, the latest set of wacky adventures from this author. As with its predecessor, Stark Raving Bonkers delivers a collection of quirky animal-related stories reminiscent of those in James Herriot’s All Creatures Great And Small, each self-contained and episodic, and thoroughly good fun from start to finish.”

You can pre-order a copy of Stark Raving Bonkers via Blue Ormer Publishing here: https://www.blueormer.co.uk/?page_id=726

GOING GREEN

Here in Guernsey, mid-November, it's unseasonably warm and none the worse for that. Is this unusual weather linked to global warming? May we expect temperatures to climb steadily in years to come and, with that climate change, the emergence of creatures more accustomed to Mediterranean climes? They'd have to be imported, of course, but there are plenty of lizards here already, as pets, and pets have a habit of escaping into the wild. Watch this space.

LIZARDS

They move so fast, these lizards, quick

and bright, unnaturally green,

that what I glimpse is memory,

an after-image, a tail-flick,

a shape imagined, not quite seen,

a nothingness, illusory.

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WHAT LIES BEYOND?

A recent visit to southern England reminded me of how much I enjoy woodland, something that's in short supply on the little island of Guernsey. I grew up on the edge of wooded countryside in Northern Ireland, back in the days when children played outdoors from dawn to dusk during school holidays, so I have a deep-seated fondness for that type of environment. 

The woods in this poem are of a less welcoming kind: a metaphor, perhaps, for that vast and unnerving unknown that exists just beyond our everyday consciousness.

THE WOODS

The woods are dark and deep, it’s true,

but are not lovely. I peer in

to watch light die out tree by tree

and, branch by branch, darkness accrue:

a furry dark, black as moleskin,

that seems to watch me balefully

as though I were some pausing prey

that dare not either fight or flee,

but, mesmerised, stands statue-still.

I shout and hear the ricochet

of my voice fly from tree to tree.

Nothing answers, nor ever will.

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ANOTHER DAY

As we edge into November, the month of my birth, it seems a suitable moment to feature this free-verse poem, written several years ago, but equally topical today. 

BIRTHDAY POEM

A bad-news day, so typical

of what we, daily, learn to call

normality. 

Another war, a bomb outrage,

an earthquake,

a hurricane,

a virus rampant, uncontrolled,

another routine genocide,

the usual starving dispossessed

with hands outstretched

in supplication. 

Another day. So swiftly now

discarded hours, like autumn leaves,

accumulate. So we grow old.

Another birthday. 

Earnestly, I tell myself, 

be unafraid;

believe that, daily, hope sustains, 

that, by some grace, tranquility

will fill the earth like sudden flowers;

that, somehow, love will be enough.

 

ROOTED IN THE PAST

Old superstitions die hard. Rationalist that I am, I prefer to encounter two magpies rather than one, avoid black cats and tend not to walk under ladders. Ancient tree-worship is surely the basis of the modern superstition of touching wood to ward off bad luck. Amazingly, these old rituals continue survive in the modern age.

 

TOUCH WOOD

Who knows the age of this gnarled tree

that stands behind the old church wall?

They say, at least a century,

and now its sturdy branches sprawl

like outspread hands to left and right

and, on the graves, cast dappled light.

The congregation of this place

regard their church with piety: 

here they achieve a state of grace,

cast off doubts and anxiety,

but others, and there are a few,

in passing, touch the old tree too.

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GETTING THE POINT

The Battle of Hastings was fought in mid-October 1066 between the Norman-French army of William, the Duke of Normandy, and an English army under the Anglo-Saxon King Harold.

It took place approximately 7 miles north-west of Hastings, close to the present-day town of Battle, East Sussex.

Harold's death, caused by an arrow towards the end of the battle, brought about the defeat of his army and led to the Norman Conquest of England.

OCTOBER RAIN

An aspen in a Norman wood

supplied the shaft.

A craftsman’s patience

straightened, seasoned, 

then perfected

something far removed from nature,

shaped the taper, sealed it, 

gently carved the narrow nock.

Fingers, that might pluck a lute

on fair-days, set to fletching: 

grey-goose feathers,  

resin gum, 

fine thread of linen.

These would aid trajectory,

ensure trueness of flight.

Lastly, a hand affixed with care

an arrowhead, the killing-piece,

fierce-furnace-forged 

into a kind of bird-wing-shape

with pointed beak, as lethal as a battle-sword.

It would be one of many

that French archers took to English soil

to fly in flocks like starlings

over Hastings fields

and fall to earth like iron rain,

out of a grey October sky,

to pierce the fearful blue of Harold’s eye. 

 

EMPTY ROOMS

Growing old, I find myself preoccupied with life’s endings: a balancing of accounts, so to speak, and the inevitable feelings of regret and remorse for things done badly or left undone. 

Deliberations of that sort inspired this piece of verse, as did the lonely, final years of renowned Guernsey-born novelist, G B Edwards, the demise of an old friend in similar straitened circumstances and, of course, Larkin’s famous poem, Mr Bleaney.

I find Philip Larkin's poem a haunting one, particularly as I grow older and become increasingly aware of the isolation and consequent loneliness that so many fall prey to.

My own poem, The Landlady's Tale, taps into the anxiety that many elderly people feel as time leaks steadily away.  

THE LANDLADY’S TALE

These were the only things he had.

I put them in a cardboard box.

Just what he wore. I thought it sad.

Apart from extra pants and socks.

A good innings at eighty-one.

We never knew he had a son.

He always was a quiet chap:

no trouble, liked his mugs of tea.

He’d come down to my door and tap,

Fancy a cuppa, Mrs P?

Before you go, forgive my cheek,

he didn’t pay his rent last week.