Seasons

Vale of Swardeston, Norfolk

Winter

King winter stripped the hedge of every leaf,
uncluttered every bough and left it clean.
So now his sky is etched in sharp relief
with secret writing hitherto unseen,
a cipher coded in complexity
that’s written in a multitude of lines,
in twisted tangles of perplexity,
in skeins of old man's beard and snaking vines.
The summer’s blossom and the leafy dead
lie tattered on the field where they were felled
or thinly hang on branches overhead,
in livery of white, by frost compelled;
they wear the uniform of winter, king,
who is the start and end of everything.

Spring

The air announces it: the coming spring.
Bring me my canvases. Break out a chest
of paints and brushes; see how I can fling
as many colours on the board as spring.
Why! Spring is brazen, flaunts its almonds, peach
and blows its blossoms far beyond my reach;
strutting its yellow ranks, its greens and whites,
brave little colours borne through bitter nights,
parading now for spring, for spring who dressed
in orpiments and limes and lemon greens
the oak, the ash, the lime itself, the beech,
late ragged beggars standing forth like queens.
I cannot copy this, I own defeat
and lay my brushes down before the feet
of lovely spring.

Bring my guitar then. I have heard the spring,
calling with cooing doves the coming sun;
singing for summer, clapping on the wing,
impatient, with the winter barely done
commanding choruses of dawn aloud
with plumes and feathers vying in a crowd.
Come, tune my strings, I’ll serenade the lark
and sound the songs that spring from memory;
dawn with the blackbirds, eve with thrushes, dark
for nightingales to come and sing with me.
But every spring surprises every ear
with sweeter songs than any heard last year
and memory falls short. Spring, you must choose
to praise yourself or find another muse.

Summer

Waves on the barley,
fresh green billows tipped with bronze,
slowly turn to gold.

Autumn
Watch this space.

Politics

Robbing pensioners

Mr Brown, in search of plunder,
making blunder after blunder,
found that rich financial wonder
middle-class folk prospered under:
the Pension Funds!

Of course a robber bold as he
could never let the pensions be
and this is how it comes to pass
that Brown despoils the middle class.

'Eco' towns

A Scottish PM with no smile
who rules England from Kent to Carlisle
wants to cover it quick
with concrete and brick
while Scotland continues in style.


Global warming, carbon dioxide and all that

An ice-age came, it went again:
so who was burning carbon then?

Derived from the works of Alcaeus and Sappho

Ancient armoury

My father’s father and my own grew old
possessing this fair dwelling and its lands
but now their riches are for us to hold,
their weapons worn by war wait for our hands.
Old-fashioned arms and armour hang in proof,
warlike adornments, of their time the best;
their gleaming metal decorates the roof;
white plumes of horse-hair wave from helmet crest.
On floor and wall these precious things are spread;
they lend their glory to the stones and boards:
the shields that turned the spear and arrowhead,
belts, tunics, corselets, greaves and good, bronze swords…
but all of this is worthless without men
who have the will to wield the like again.



Fill every beaker

Like racing horses come the stormy rains,
with lightning in their hooves and howling breath;
with snow and hailstones whipping us like chains
to bring unsheltered men to freezing death.
Defy the storm; light up the lamps and fire.
What are we waiting for? Bring out the wine.
The last dull glimmers of the day retire.
Now is the time to venerate the vine,
the only remedy the dark earth knows
for all the thoughts by which the mind is vexed.
Fill every beaker till it overflows,
let every one be jostled by the next.
Oblivion is how the world began
and wine’s a thing that understands a man.




Sappho accuses Aphrodite

It gladdened eyes; its blossom fed the bee;
the sweetest apple ripened in the sun
upon the tip, the topmost of the tree,
and hung there still when harvesting was done.
Forgotten? No, but not a man aspired,
until the goddess came to shake her free,
to touch the apple that was most admired.
I’m sorry, Mother dear, but don’t blame me.
Blame Aphrodite; she has sent a youth,
as slender as the stripling apple tree,
to shake me with desire. You know the truth:
with love she traps us women, wantonly;
against this creature there is no defence;
we must surrender until love relents.


Cleis

I have a daughter, prettier than flowers,
and bonny as the budding boughs of May.
I would not part with her for golden towers
nor all the money that the world could pay.
My mother told me that when I was born
the girls had purple bands to bind their hair;
I’ve lately seen such coloured headbands worn
and I would get one but I know not where.
The fiery poppy and the cornflower blue,
forget-me-nots and herbs the shepherds find,
O daughter mine, are all I have for you
to plat and weave upon your head and bind…
but little Cleis, here in Sappho’s rhyme
you hair is handsome to the end of time.


Sappho sings to Anactoria

Some like to see the horseguards wheel and dash
across a wide plain, bright with tossing plumes,
when colours fly, when arms and armour flash.
But some prefer a cloud of cherry blooms
when happy April, bridesmaid of the sun,
adorns herself to show that spring’s begun.
While others say a fleet of sail at sea
surpasses any other scenery.
Although I love the troopers, cherries too,
my favourite, Anactoria, is you.
Your laughter thrills me, sweet as any flute;
I catch a glimpse of you and I am mute;
I sweat and tremble and I catch my breath;
your flame burns in me; I am close to death.

Sappho at the mirror

Before her mirror, in the morning light,
she finds some greyness in her silken hair
where all until this dawn was glossy bright;
she weeps to see the marks of passage there.
Soft Dawn, the midwife to the darkened earth,
delivers the new day when shadows fade
but never learns what this new thing is worth
for she is gone before it’s fully made.
Now Sappho sees that Dawn, who brings the sun,
goes with the shadows when they make their flight,
fades in the very glory she’s begun,
dies and dissolves in her created light;
she sees that death is evil, that the gods agree
and for themselves choose immortality.


Sappho sleeps alone

The moon sets; the stars fade; the midnight owl has flown;
the hours creep and she’s afraid for Sappho sleeps alone.
She fears there is some shallow maid, some wretched girl unknown,
some artful charmer who has made poor Sappho’s love her own;
so Sappho languishes, betrayed, forlorn and left to moan.
In all the world I love you best and yet we sleep apart;
come tell me I am dispossessed and let me make a start
upon a solitary quest for I long to depart,
to leave the dark earth unredressed and stay my aching heart.
At last you come! Look in my face; I’m burning with desire.
Your eyes are bright and full of grace but Sappho is on fire.
Unfurl your loveliness, unlace, and let your love be strong
and lingering as we embrace and night be twice as long.



Sappho appeals to Aphrodite

Immortal Aphrodite, I’m alone.
Come shield me from the anguish and despair
that overwhelm your Sappho, overthrown.
I sense swift wings that bring you through the air
and those old questions in your gracious smile:
you’ll ask me what has gone awry again
and who it is that you must reconcile.
My mad heart flutters in my breast till then.
‘Someone has spurned you, Sappho? Tell me who,
for she shall love you though against her will
and if she flees then she shall soon chase you
and what you heart desires I shall fulfil.’
Come Aphrodite, come to me, descend,
and be my ally, counsellor and friend.

Lovers' flowers

Lover’s flower

What’s the lover’s favourite flower?
Spiky gorse, adorned with many
golden blossoms, ten-a-penny,
every month and every hour.
What’s the reason? Love’s in season
when the gorse comes into flower:
every month and every hour.



Bluebell Wood

Between the oaks and through the briars
and underneath the sycamores
the bluebells run like spirit fires,
inflaming on the leafy floors;
besetting lovers, hotly yearning,
lying where the fire is burning.
Burning!
Burning, burning all aflame
with a fire they cannot tame.

The nettles grow near Bluebell Wood
and rafters rot beside a wall
where other lovers came and stood
their names and faces past recall;
where busy moles and worms interning,
leaves and mould to nettles turning;
turning, turning fallen petals,
unremembered, turn to nettles.

It’s time that damps the lovers’ flame,
impatient time that cannot stay
to learn a solitary name
but lets all passing pass away.
Blinkered time! But love is ranging
ever further, ever changing.
Changing, changing as we lie,
changing into love gone by.




A day remembered

Where lady ferns and snakes unfold
and buttercups in glossy gilt
outshine the gorseflower’s yellow gold
my spunky youth was freely spilt
and there our lusty lungs were filled
with philtres from the lake distilled,
that day;
when came that way and nothing loath,
a boy and girl, two virgins both.

Sang all that day the loud cuckoo,
the nosy neighbour’s chief of spies,
but all the world was wooing too
and had no time for prying eyes;
for all had better things to do
than listen to the fool cuckoo.
My oath,
they did come both, both girl and boy
and nothing loath nor were they coy.

Though love is ever prone to stray,
not bothering to tell us why,
we cannot love like yesterday
and cannot gain from love passed by.
Yet love’s no fly with painted wings,
a prey to any bird that sings,
nor toy,
nor wanton joy but boy! Oh! Boy!
We came that day and were not coy.

The lovely, long-remembered day
dies with a poppy-coloured sun
‘We’ll not forget’ the lovers say
‘and never, never will be done’
but time untwists the lovers’ knot
and beckons to a loamy spot
them both
nor are they loath for time has run
and time must end what love’s begun.



Nocturne

Do you remember, white, white maid
how pretty was the couch we laid?
Oh! Call it heather, call it ling,
bare on the naked heath we’d cling,
close to the very noon of night,
the summer moon in roundest light
atop the trees while we, beneath,
in shadows black upon the heath
like silver trout in some dark pool
each took the other one to school.
The summer moon, her face all red
from watching us, lit up our bed;
a friend who never hid her face
nor gave away our hiding place.



Bon appetite

If love’s your table set for one
your feast cannot have long to run;
a selfish hunger will be small
bon appetite to lovers all.

Love is a banquet made for two
so let us quaff each other’s wine;
I’m greedy for your heady brew;
you sparkle like champagne for mine.

There is no vintage to excel
the potent waters of your well
and since you taste it you must know
how sweet the blossom that I grow.



J.

You burn before me like a golden fleece
where seaborne sequins sparkle in the sun,
beyond a whirlpool churning without cease,
across a gulf where fearful currents run.
A wiser, kinder god I would invoke
but fierce young Eros comes to visit me,
about him, darkly wrapped, his purple cloak
to throw upon the separating sea.
He weaves bewitching yarns but evermore
tranquillity departs at his approach:
I seem to see you on a distant shore,
a golden fleece pinned with a golden brooch,
where cedar-scented breezes seek the sea
and fatten sails that sail away from me.




Cleopatra

I once knew Cleopatra;
I let her sail away
upon her barque from Actium
to live another day.

Witch eyes and wishful longing,
the purple sails and plain,
that carried us to Actium
can’t bear us up again.

I once knew Cleopatra;
there’s poison in the truth:
I let her go at Actium
to find a serpent’s tooth.





The end of the affair

Those late reflections in your eyes,
those lilies of the moon, those green
dye-wringed silks, those emeralds tell
the truth too clear, too plainly and too well.
Hang in the wind and spill your colours out
you alien banners of unpleasant truth:
there is no love to hold you close to me.
Let oceans burn away and heaven’s flame
consume the earth: the thing remains the same



Now and then

How I would sling a rifle!
And swing like a hussar!
And earn a husband’s hatred! Ho! Hurrah!
The ladies that I feted
now seem to be outdated
so I’m singing for a trifle
to a lonely, black guitar.




Throwing crockery

My daughter has just thrown a plate
at her mate.
So! The old custom survives
among wives.
Her maternal grandad, now late,
hurled a plate
at her gran
and my dad, also dead,
ducked his head
for his life just as much
from his wife
as the hun (of ’41).
In a stew
I once threw, being studious
and moody-ous:
Acta Crystallographica, 1987, part 2
at my wife
who is perfect but never gives up
and annoyed with me once became
so untame
as to hit me with tea
in a cup.
When all’s said:
marriage is made in bed
but unstable
at table.



Temptation on the river

Myself and Eve are dressed for summer,
like the willows by the river;
softly on the satin pillows of the water gently slipping;
idle blades in Isis dipping;
traffic like a distant drummer…
Look! Here comes a swimming snake!

On the water, barely in it,
serpent eyes of Eden glinting, green enamelled, surface dinting,
there he lies for just a minute,
on the shiny wetness resting, head on paddle, fork tongue testing;
spirit of the poison chalice, innocent of any malice.

Round his noble neck is rolled the ancient torque in leaf of gold,
freshly fashioned by a master, delicate as alabaster,
emerald scales and, thin as whips, turquoise inlaid on his lips;
that tempt my Eve?
Not so, it errs to think that his could tempt like hers
but now he swims away in haste. Farewell, we’ve other fruit to taste.





Winter rondeau

Him O let us go! For summer seems
already come and golden beams
warm leafless banks although they’re bare;
wild honey seems to scent the air
and ghostly mayflies haunt the streams.

Her I catch your words and eye which gleams
and tells me that it ill beseems
and yet the sunny banks are fair.
O let us go!

Him We have surpassed the wanton themes
that jealous muses bring to dreams
with ravishments beyond compare.
Her But now I am in disrepair
and O how cold the weather seems
O let us go!






Mistress. Winter’s jump
(A lyric for John Dowland’s ‘Mrs. Winter’s Jump’)

Over the stile, the sticks and the stumps
young Mistress Winter goes over the jumps;
clearing the ditches, water and dry,
shot from a longbow and feathered to fly.
Follow the hound that follows the deer;
jump every fence and swallow your fear,
up on a horse that is bred from the blood
with a clatter, scatter, spatter of mud!
Over the fence at desperate pace!
Fie to the fox! It’s Winter I chase;
I’ll catch her yet if I get a good start
but she up, away, away with my heart.



The day the world changed

‘Today the world changed;
it has happened before.
There were things rearranged
but nothing estranged
from the end prearranged
by the natural law.
Today the world changed,
it has happened before.’

‘Then our love was exchanged
by some natural law!
I am much disarranged
that so far have we ranged
that today the world changed
and you cannot say more
than our love was exchanged
by some natural law!’

‘My guns are outranged
I can argue no more.
O let me be manged
devoured or deranged
if ever I’m changed;
it is you I adore.
My guns are outranged
I can argue no more.’


Faces in a crowd

From face to face my glances fly,
among a thousand, all unique,
yet every one the same:
mere wooden faces passing by
on lonely dolls that cannot speak
and gnomes without a name.

Your face alone delights my eye
and promises the cure I seek
for aches I cannot tame.
I wait in fever; wonder why
this helpless yearning leaves me weak
and why you are to blame.

At last you come. My mouth is dry;
I tremble; I can hardly speak;
you clasp me like a flame.
I'll burn forever. As I die
I shall remember, cheek-to-cheek,
how you were mine to claim.