A little egret
Alifts from the riverside
Like an ancestral apparition
Bound by its being to the ever-flow of water
But released by the freedom of the moment
To rise and ride the wind -
Haunting the liminal land on wide, white wings.

Last Swallow (11 September)

Solitary swallow
Soaring and swooping
In and out of September's sky

Orchard-drunk

Shadowy shade savoured
Walking through the old orchard
As fermenting fallen fruit
Infuses the warm, humid air
With sweet cidery smells

The Colpexies of Colmers Hill

 

With its iconical conical shape and crown of nine perching pines

Colmers Hill has long been known, since golden, olden times,

As a favoured place for festivities of the faerie folk:

The Little People, The Good Neighbours, The Shining Ones, The Others…

All dressed in red and green, with feathers in their caps,

But rarely seen as they make merry on hallowed hilltops

At special, spiritual times of year, such as Beltain and Midsummer’s Eve,

When God-fearing folk believe it’s wiser and safer to stay inside,

With salt sprinkled on the doorway, for fear of being pixy-led:

Involuntarily taken on a dangerous dance; a dalliance with doom!

And of all the varied array of faerie folk the most secretive and shy,

Hardly ever caught by human eye, are the Colpexies -

Digging and picking in the sandstone sides of Dorset’s hidden holloways.

And perhaps you've seen their strange symbols and stone-carved runes,

Or perchance you’ve found one of their dislocated digits -

Colpexies' Fingers - which those of rational, reductive minds call Belemnites.

Great good luck for those who find their fingers – wealth and health and lustrous long life;

But the Colpexies are tricksy, treacherous folk, not to be taken lightly or joked about,

And to interfere with their habitations is to invite trouble into your own home.

So be warned and beware: lest you find yourself bewitched and betwixt...
...this world and the Others' world!

Taking myself for a walk

I never see another walker

When I go for a walk

Except a walker with a dog -

A dog taking a walker for a walk

But I don’t need a dog

When I go for a walk

I can walk all by myself

Without a four-legged friend

Who lives in my house 
To take me out for a walk

But I, like a dog, need to walk

Every day, because if I stay

In my house without going out

I feel sad and start acting badly

So I do daily take myself for a walk

Perhaps I am a dog?
A dog and a walker rolled into one

Or perhaps I just don’t need one,
A dog, to go for a walk

But like a dog on a walk

When I go for a walk I don’t walk

I bound along, like a happy song,

Until suddenly I stop

In my tracks

In the middle of the path

For no reason, other than to listen

Or to stare at something

That catches my eye or reaches my ear

Or better still I sniff the air

And wonder what it is

Until I’ve forgotten why it is

That I’m still standing there

And so once more I walk on, on my walk

My inner dog taking his walker out for a walk

And I when I go for a walk
I never meet another walker

Except a walker with a dog…

For Jude

A poem for a departed friend, whom I didn't know that well, but whose positive actions and attitudes were interlaced within the place where we shared a home:

Rambling around the ancient hill
In the thickness of the mist
Turned into tears by the dripping of the trees
I stumble across a patch of pale primroses
That suddenly seem to glow:
The brightness of their immanence
Marking the impermanence of the seasons
And I am glad to have see them; there and then.

Chiffchaff chiffchaff
Sing spring sprung!