The poems here were written about places I have visited, or were inspired by them. Usually they will have been written, or at least started, in the place itself, then revised and edited after the visit. I enjoy finding new places but I also have favourite places which I still visit regularly.
If you have a poem about a place special to you perhaps you would like to share it with other visitors to my website? If so, please get in touch.
First Time In The Country
Hard to remember now, three decades past
but echoes echo through past-time tunnels.
Lagos airport, capital then, and the rat
large as a cat, leaping over luggage in the terminal
while the customs officer smiled and asked if I had brought him a ‘gift’ from England
and I feigned ignorance of what he meant (unsuccessfully).
Outside, a world crammed with what seemed like the whole of Africa
all speaking at once, milling around, busy, busy, busy
while I searched for a familiar soul in the crowd –
last seen five years since.
Then, there he was, a beaming face, overjoyed
as he waded through the horde vying to “assist Madame with her luggage,”
in white traditional dress, in his own place now,
not suited in rain-soaked Manchester, no stranger here.
Ah Nigeria, I grew to love you then as now, your country and your people.
A heaven on earth (still?) – if only greed could be enchained, corruption tamed.
The remit of ‘The Oldie’ competition in February 2016 was to write a poem about your first time in a country. I chose to remember my first visit to Nigeria. This was way back in 1985 …. how much has changed since then – and how much hasn’t……
Clew Bay In June (1)
It’s easy to believe in heaven
with a view like this –
looking out at a gentle sea
the sun warming my back
tenderly.
Colours change imperceptibly
No harshness here, today
Earth tones only as the day begins:
greens, blues, browns and fawns
mixing and merging
as the light dictates
softly.
Only the birds move
in first-food-seeking –
and the clouds
thinning
exposing blue sky
for what will be
another lovely day.
Written at the beginning of a holiday (2015) in County Mayo, Ireland. We were staying in a lovely modern ‘village’ of holiday cottages, expertly designed, it seemed, to merge into the landscape.
Skegness Sunrise In December
Bright sunshine behind sharp railings
light blinding.
Eyes – too-tempted
Look – too-directly
Impossible for long …….
Flashes inside eyelids
create furious blinking
even though I
move eyes away quickly
(no real choice)
to gaze elsewhere
entranced now
by clouds moving methodically
as they hide the once
multi-layered
multi-coloured
multi-textured
wide, wide, sky
to create a more monochrome day for us below.
Flashes gone now – eyes focus
on black-silhouetted bird
as it soars swiftly upwards
into the gathering grey.
Written (or at least drafted) on a holiday at Butlin’s in Skegness in December 2015. I was at The Great British Folk Festival for the first time – and it was my first time in a Butlin’s Holiday Camp since the 1960s! The ‘sharp railings ‘ surrounded the site – the sea was beyond – in a dip, unseen. The sunrise was hypnotic.
Snow Flakes in London
Last night’s snowflakes drifted
sparsely, gently, slowly
ashen-like crystals floating
to settle on car rooves,
to melt on black-wet roads.
The world was quiet, even in London,
as we strolled, my dog and I,
on our last walk of the day
just before midnight.
I wondered if they would lay, those snowflakes,
if houses, gardens, streets and roads
might greet the morning new-robed
in deep whiteness, clean and gentle.
Not here, not now, too warm, too wet, too “Londony”
I decided – and anyway, they had hardly started
and already looked as if they might stop.
I was wrong. This morning’s covering was not grand
but was enough to change the world – a little —
confirming the power of many
to change the view of most.
Snow flakes had merged into ice branches (already dripping)
snow flakes deeply carpet roads,
form mini-mountain ranges in uneven garden places
cushion surfaces and create
sloping drifts in almost hidden hollows
to make a world changed back too soon
by parent taxi drivers – bringing children to the school,
the trampling feet of people – hurrying to work,
while the youngsters scraped runnels from the car tops
or handy, low-lying walls – making
balls by crushing crystals – to throw at friends
with shrieks of glee
as their parents did before them
as far back as we can see.
Hollow Pond in September
1. Bracelet and Birds
A bracelet I found there
lapped by water at the pond’s very edge
discarded or lost, perhaps slipped from a careless wrist
as it dangled in water from a row boat
lazily, on one of hot summer’s sun-kissed days.
Mock-silver circlet with raised metal studs
wrapped round with black nylon, shining
beneath mock-waves on orange coloured gravel
clean, inviting theft from cool lake bed.
White down feathers mimicked flowers, a mini- Monet,
softly sitting on surface green weeds
while coots called an alert to my presence
to golden-eyed geese with bright orange beaks
who showed white bottoms when upended.
Wind ruffled the surface gently, pretending
the pond was a sea with continuous waves
as water birds gathered for food-expectantly
but all I could offer was paper and pen.
This is one poem of what, eventually I hope, will be two or three about a walk I took in September. Hollow Pond is part of Epping Forest in London. It was a lovely day but there were signs of Autumn on the way. I did “steal” the bracelet but if the owner reads this poem I will give it back….
Nearer My God To Thee?
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
than anywhere else, you hear
so out, out damn weed, begone
it’s not your leaves but your roots I fear.
The devil will take the hindmost
in a winter of discontent
so gather ye rosebuds while ye may
but of your weeds repent.
The flowers they are a bloomin’
in this summer of sun and rain
so use your hoe while you can
this time will not come again.
Yet even the weed has beauty
for butterfly and bee and
in fruitfulness and tenacity sings
‘Nearer my God to Thee’.
Welcome May
Welcome May in all your late springtime glory
primrose-filled lawn in prime.
The daffodils are leaving now, turning
towards their sleepy summer, feeding
bulbs which will pro-create by winter time.
New shoots spear the opening clay, in London
growing, it seems, ‘before our very eyes’.
Bluebells already crowd the garden edges, eagerly
filling space with green leaf verdure
before opening blue blossoms to paler skies.
My bushes, all in mock Autumn colours, thrive in
springtime surge fed by long winter’s rain.
Thick, deep green leaves, with reds and purples, tenderly
protect plants bedded beneath.
Summer will see bells of sweet fuchsia again.
Yes, welcome to May in all your late springtime glory
frost-filled days of winter now almost done.
How my heart thrills with each trill of bird song
as butterfly and bee flit over fresh cut grass
scent full of promise, in Summer-like sun.
A celebration of May Day 2013 and the riot of flowers in my pocket-handkerchief front garden ……. I love it!
Airborne
You have invaded my mind
swirling twirling
but I welcome you in
sweeping curling
turning
floating
air on air
commanding attention.
Head still
eyes transfixed
yours and mine
feet poised
for swooping
wings wide
to catch
my soul.
Come
beloved
take me with you
on the wind
take me with you
to the sun.
I was a short weekend break in the Isle of Wight, with EFOG. At the top of Tennyson Hill there was a kestrel. It mesmerised me.
London Parks Walk (EFOG)
If you’d gone down to the parks today
In good old London town
You’d have seen a band of EFOGers
Walking all around.
Led by the intrepid Amina
With notes held tight in her hand
Aided by sweet Louise and Madeleine
They were a merry band.
They assembled at Westminster
To the sounds of good Big Ben
Fred and Steve and Jim and Paul
Chris, Peter, Dave and Ken.
The women, of course, were beautiful
As gentleman Jim will tell
Fozi, Ann, Sue, Pam and Maz
And the leaders who led us so well.
This is a fond “ditty” , a tribute to my friends in EFOG.
October Sea (1)
Heart sighing softly
sea sound
relaxing smoothly
mind waves lapping
in chorus
gently.
Wind intermittent on cheeks
sun warmed
with touch of
oh so slight
chill.
Salt stiff sea grass moving
greeting or farewell
place of “helloes” and “goodbyes”
intermingling.
October Sea (2)
What is, is
what was, was
what will be, will be.
Today the sea is livelier than yesterday
more powerful, working harder
but softer, oh much softer
than the day before
the day before
today
when wild winds
whipped the wave flumes frothy
when rain and sea joined
in mad caresses
and laughed
and ran
and swam together
As the humans ran for home.
I often go to Walton On The Naze to walk by the sea, especially when I need to “restore” my soul. The above poems were written when I was there on a short caravan holiday. Each day was so very different weather-wise. I did think of dividing this poem into two – but I liked its connectivity. It was written four years ago and I can’t remember the particular problems on my mind but I do remember the seas.
Evening on a Black Mountain
I hear echoes of water running
in rivulets beneath the earth
this boggy earth
as I tread its clumpy clumps
vividly imagining caverns beneath
this dark mountain, Black
no water shortage here
no hose pipe ban.
Hewn rocks, multi-shaped, strewn around
embedded firmly
provide a seat to pause to write.
Cold wind teases nose and cheeks
I pull woolly hat around my ears (no one to see)
and rush to finish the poem
reluctantly hurried.
Mist gathers quickly as the pale sun
decides to set slowly
on wheaten coloured earth lying quietly, darkening
beneath the greying clouds of night.
Written on a short holiday in the Black Mountain region of Wales. I had arrived rather late in the day but couldn’t resist driving up to a car park near the summit of a mountain before climbing to the top. The subtle colours of the mountain and the sky entranced me and the sounds of the earth seemed to welcome me – with hints of magic.
Glencolumbcille Solstice
The sun a pale round disc
shining only as contrast
in dun
-white featureless sky
silent above the quiet bay
in Glencolumbcille.
The sea a metal-grey-blue millpond
bounded by gentle land – greening
rising smoothly to moorland hills
rolling, rolling, rolling – to slowly awakening life.
Activities quicken as light grows and thin mist rises
to melt into the sky.
Folk, flesh and fowl begin to move
drive, walk, eat, call and sing
while the weather reminds us
winter will surely come
with a rain different from today’s
as the world turns its face again
towards Autumn, then Winter
then Spring.
I was on a Summer holiday with my outdoor group, EFOG, in the north west of Ireland, staying in a cottage high above the village of Glencolumbcille. You could see down into the valley, over the hills on the other side and out to sea. But what you saw was very reliant on the time of day and the weather, especially the speed with which it could change. This poem was written at the time of the Summer Solstice when the weather had more than a hint of Autumn.
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