This, that, then...

This walk,

up and over Bothen Hill,

is a favourite way

to make sense of the world;

let my feet find a rhythm

for the rest of me to follow.

That day

the wind was unsettling, creating

a swirl of emotions, inside:

uncertainty. And the certainty

that things were changing,

soon. The way home

was shadowed by dark

clouds gathering in the evening;

like crows and jackdaws

returning to roost.

Then,

unexpectedly,

the sun broke through.

Clear, golden light falling, 

like rain, over Colmer’s Hill,

and Bridport below,

illuminated

with rays 
of hope.

Hogchester Farm

We drifted down

Through the flower-folded meadow

Amongst a flotilla of brown-sailed butterflies

And a cavalry of tiny grasshoppers, clattering

Against the seed-cases of yellow rattle.                                      

Golden sunlight crowned the oaks in the hedgerows

And kissed the tops of feather-crested grasses.

That night, sleeping outside

Beside flickering firelight and

Ghostly moonlit foxgloves,

We were haunted by fleeting rain-sprites

and disembodied fox yelps

Disturbing the darkness.

I awoke beneath oaken arms:

The campfire still smouldering

With the smell of whisky and

Tender late-night conversation
Hanging heavy in the rain-thickened air.