Loubes-Bernac
this village is silent
yet to warm its stones,
our tiny Chapelle
aches with ancient torpidity
I feel I must be observant
the quietude deafens, so
I invent an imaginary tock
a slow pendulous clock
that drops coins
into a fountain of time
as the dawn vapours take leave
a distant rooster bellows
and hounds shake night fleas
off in the dust
Sundays are for hunting
*
Local Man, Australia
I sense you slowly flit
from gum to gum
an elegant balletic stance
on leather toes, ethereal,
I feel the inquisitive stroke
of your furrowed stare
smell your body’s heady resin paint
dotted lines in fluid daub
immersed within euphoric spying trees,
darting lizards, strange rainbow birds
I hear a rhythmic guttural hum.
are you afraid?
it’s better to stay safely hidden
don’t make a trade
this is still your land and I hear its song
as kangaroos bound across the sky
*
Kitchen Garden at Heligan
old knowing walls and ivy-hidden gateway
enfold the earth’s green aromas
damp soil, vegetation and softened wood
aged wisdom, old tools, straight lines
canes, sisal and markers signing the paths
nets, sticks and cloches, sentries for tender shoots
there’s calm here, a wash that cleanses
the mind and softens the heart
a warm melancholy peace
the raucous scrape of a spade
damped by the intensely heady climat
time slows here, breathing slower
herbal scents on onshore breezes
drift from the hidden valley
and out of focus, barely seen
Mevagissey’s lost boys
silently go about their business
*
Kings Cross
There’s no longer the hiss of steam
save for the baristas
warming latte milk.
No crunching bogies grind
just the rasp and clatter
of Javan beans,
no bouldering blue grey plumes
to avalanche across
the arched-ribbed span.
No smell of coal
nor fried eggs on the footplate
just the chargrilled
pong of foreign grub.
No crinolines no travel trunks
no crisp-dressed porters
doffing caps.
No packages in the Parcel Yard
a brief encounter
time to depart.
*
Jake’s Place, Dartmouth
arriving after rain
we ducked under wet
low-hanging apples
to find Jake’s place
tucked away
on a narrow, pebbled path
the South Hams unfolding
like a map before our eyes
a green patchwork, undulating
from the hedge.
a distant Start Point light
a solitary chalk finger, blinking
in the dusk
twenty-miles warning flashes
three-short, three-long, three-short
gradually we became accustomed
to the cabin’s gentle breathing
the knocks, the taps
the heady smell of sweet wood
the burner lit
the cottage began its conversation
we listened each cradling Bathtub and tonic
then supper, pasta and Morellino di Scansano
both surprised how quickly
after thirty years, we remembered
the rules of cribbage
fifteen two, fifteen four
two for a pair, one for his nob
your box
pegging spent matches
on the Wills’s Star cigarettes board
that still reeks of the ‘Gate’.
*
Grasmere
of course, the hill doesn’t move,
but the waking eye is fooled
to think so
the pale slate back-drop
slides right to left,
a trompe d’oeil
I return to bed confused
later sooty tree silhouettes
through veined fingers
turn to breakfast blue
I’m distracted from
a crossword and eggs Benedict
take another surreptitious glance
the pretty girl doesn’t disappoint
dressed in green velvet frocks
tantalizes me throughout the day
resolute, move not an inch
or looks my way
this pantomime scenery
wheeled past my eyes,
a cereal packet colour box
*
Southwold
my mother would have liked it here.
seaside how it used to be
gentile, old money
but choked by Astons and Bentleys
parked cheek-by-jowl
in tiny terraced streets
bank holiday Monday, the sun cracks the flag
the town breathless, wheezing, under strain
mummies, picnic on the green
Rafas, Harry’s Ollies play
come Tuesday, a ghost town
a widow abandoned, bereft
peering through empty windows
until the next weekend
tea on the pier
the Sizewell glitter ball
fading through the fret
*
Port Isaac
a milk blue swell
topped with silver crowns
breathes a long and heavy sigh
nudging the reef at Varley Head
beer foam swamps the Shillingstones
roaring in its craggy gugs.
three skiffs lie beached
on dog leash chains
as dogs seek piddle smells to sniff,
bored grockles peer in trinket shops
in search of pasties down the lanes.
these narrow streets keep echoes warm
The Bark House nets, the Dolphin’s ale
and ghosts of shanties whispered low
swirl around old salted stones
like chimney smoke.
*
Marsden Poetry Village
a wedge of cheese, caught
in the scissors of the Coln
smeared up like a butty
smoke and stone
different tongues
catch my ear, tease my eye
wet my lips
Bank Bottom’s broke
and cloth is cut more carefully
spring long gone
the chance of a cuckoo,
to catch my ear, tease my eye
wet my lips.
blackened Standege Tunnel
burrows the glorious autumnal moor
hiding darker secrets still,
I cower as voices
catch my ear, tease my eye
wet my lips.
*
The Eden Project
I went in search of Eden
to worship Gaia once again
but had to join a shuffling queue
stood sodden in the rain.
I’d had to leave my car behind
parked up two miles away
and trudged along mesmerised
to a sunken pit of clay
they said I’d need a ticket
to enter the giant balls
where habitats from everywhere
shared space with waterfalls.
the price was pretty hefty
the staff were all quite nice
who’d think you’d need an overdraft
to enter paradise
inside was really busy
the queue became a tide
the staff said this was typical
if it’s pissing down outside
the exhibits all looked careworn
I saw the giant bee
the rainforest was choc-a-bloc
with school kids running-free
The Wee Man sculpture scared me
a massive metal hunk
made from toasters, washers, driers
and other white goods junk
I left quite disappointed
my pass said come again
if I ever return to Eden
it better not fucking rain
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