White Christmas?

Christmas Day 2010 in Therfield, Hertfordshire.

I have just spent a great Christmas with my son Toby and his family in Hertfordshire, but it seems all was not what it appeared.

White Christmas?

It was not a white Christmas!
At least,
that’s what the bookies said.
Though I woke to excited squeals of delight
That drowned out the rip and tear of paper
and outside the world was, as it was last night,
white, covered and crisply encased.

Though snow crunched under my feet,
icicles, hung from thatched eves,
and threaten to drop, but didn’t drip.
Rooks, backlit by brilliant blue,
were black silhouettes,
watching from empty branches,
as my breath, billowed out before me.

Though occasional cars slithered past
as feet slipped on glazed pavements,
or slid into toboggan tracks,
my eyes squinted at reflected light,
and Christmas card scenes surrounded me,
Santa and snowman sharing,
what once was a lawn.

You see, this snow fell yesterday,
or the day before,
or for days before that,
but sad to say; none today.
So it was not a white Christmas!
At least,
that’s what the bookies said.

The Elm and the Plough.

I don’t often write to strict form, preferring to let each poem discover its own form as it develops. The following sonnet though was an exception.

The Elm and the Plough.

Against cold winds that bite and bend your boughs
you stand, hosting the rooks and crows who caw
angered by gulls that swoop behind the plough
and fight for worms that hide in covered straw.
Many seasons you have watched this scene
silhouetted by wild and wintry grey.
Today’s ploughman powers his huge machine
and folds six stubbled rows without much strain.

Before; when horse pulled plough across this land
and ploughman bent his weary back to scratch
one straight furrow, by skill of eye and hand.
Perhaps against your ageing bark he’d snatch
a rest, before returning to the soil.
Then did you watch their heavy, plodding toil?

My Old Dictionary.

On being given the brief, ‘write a poem about an inanimate object,’ I was not immediately filled with enthusiasm. An inanimate object, like a still life when painting, would not be subject matter I would normally choose. However, in both cases, the subject can seem to take on a life of its own once work has commenced.

My Old Dictionary.

You lay on my desk,
dropped carelessly, like litter.
Your spine as stretched and split
as bark peeling from a tree,
exposing the torn brown linen
of your broken binding.

Your front cover is askew.
A skater trying to regain balance,
falling back, feet skidding forward.
Showing well-thumbed corners
curling up from stacked, yellowed,
and liver spotted pages.

Grubby and finger searched,
yet faint gold letters hint,
at your value, your importance.
Cool to touch, friendly to feel,
I breathe your musty breath
and search to find certainty
within your ageing wisdom.

The Gypsy in Me.

My father used to say, whenever we passed gypsies at the roadside, ‘Look, wave to our country cousins.’ He was referring to a tale told to him by his father, of gypsy blood in the family many generations back.

Later, when researching family history, I made contact with a distant branch of the family in New Zealand who added weight to this tale as the same story had been passed down their line of the family.

It appears that there was some liaison with a Romany who came across from Brittany while the family was living in the Thornbury area of Gloucestershire. Unfortunately no details are known, or seem to have been recorded; this has often made me wonder?

The Gypsy in me.

There’s gypsy in me, so I’m told
it’s in my bloodline, in my genes.
It’s why I crave the open air
and open spaces, wild and free,
are places where I need to be.

Some dark liaison long ago
has left a lasting legacy
of restlessness and itchy feet
that feel the need to up and roam
although I’m happy here at home.

Perhaps a gypsy boy, so bold,
had charmed a milk maid with his song
or dark haired beauty’s flashing eyes
did search inside a ploughman’s soul
and steal away his self control.

Just who it was I’ll never know,
of how they loved, or lived their lives
of where they travelled, when and why.
Which Romany had broke their code
and lingered with a Gorgio.

When van and vanners rest nearby
their wood-smoke wafting on the breeze
dogs barking, children, wild, untamed.
If then, I feel affinity,
it’s just the gypsy, that’s in me.

Déjá vu

We’ve all experienced it I guess, that feeling that we’ve been somewhere or heard something before, but know full well that there is no way we could have. Or perhaps I just spend too much time alone in the woods. You will have to decide.

Déjá vu

Leaves are rustling overhead,
caressed by gentle breeze.
Whispers born of unseen breath
are calling down to me.
Although I try to listen
I can’t quite catch the words.
a message from a misty past,
remains, remote, unheard.

In dappled shadows of my mind
forgotten feelings grow.
Some lost association
from a time I could not know.
Beyond my understanding,
yet I know it in my bones,
that this is not the first time
I have heard these ancient tones.

The sultry summer sun is warm
but now my blood runs chill
and shivers trickle down my spine.
The woodland grows quite still.
Aware that I am being watched
by eyes that are not there.
I search among the undergrowth
and seek that icy stare.

But I am standing here alone
around me only trees.
Surrounded just by silence
and a presence I can’t please.
At last the birds begin to sing,
once more I start to breathe.
That haunting voice is quiet now,
I quickly take my leave.