© roy ballard 2012


Here’s my hand, depend upon it

and my love whilst I’m alive;

I, my love and this poor sonnet

are contrived for you to thrive.

Summer turns to late September,

matched we are and yet star-crossed;

the breath of fate upon an ember

flares a light that had been lost.

History and rainy weather…

not for me to reason out

mystery and us together.

We shall live the season out

bringing just what needs to be:

me to you and you to me.

 
Multiple Sclerosis

She comes in slowly, hanging on the air.
'MS' I'm told 'She's only thirty-one'.
They park her gently 'til her name is called.
She's pushing on the stick. Can she get up?
Uncertainly she rises; dials whirl;
the altimeter spins; horizons fall;
the ground revolves; the airspeed clock goes mad.
Her head is high. By God, she's bound to stall
but up she gets and makes toward the desk.
I watch. She's leaving; careful with her things,
she mounts a tricycle and slowly checks
the brakes, trim, undercarriage, radiator, guns,
or so it seems to me. Then chocks away!
Beyond the tarmac enemies await
but out she rolls; intrepidly she flies
to join The Few who dare the dangerous skies.


















Harvest moon
once
seen
not
quite by chance
now fades in the daytime haze






Pheasant shoot at West Harling

Upon the painted meadows contented cattle graze;
the distant, towered churches brood on half a million days.
Black Carr is dank and sedgy but Micklemoor is high;
so here the Ancients settled and here their bones still lie.
The beaters whack the branches; the sportive springer runs;
they drive the tribe of pheasants to the boding line of guns.

Wrapped in the reeds by Roman Wood, the stag stands in alarm;
his ears pick up a warning, his nose the scent of harm.
The duck seeks hidden ditches, the fox forsakes his lair;
the pigeon flies across the sun and dodges like a hare.
The pheasant sounds his brassy bell, he whirrs his wings to fly
and every ear seeks out his voice and every gun the sky.

Across the heath and forest, six thousand years ago,
their fathers' dress was formal when hunting they would go.
In buckskin boots and sable, with feathers in their caps,
in moleskins and morocco they were well apparelled chaps.
And pheasants do require it, when coming to be killed,
that turn-out should be proper, be it corded, tweed or twilled;
the greasy mark of tractors, a trace of ferret stool
and hints of dogs and ditches bother nobody at all.

© roy ballard 2012


Words

To counterfeit reality with words
what limp, insipid and unbellied things
are languages. What twitterings of birds!
What dessicated, snaky scribblings!
Beyond the power of languages to tell
the soaring eagle lives in heaven's eye;
he needs no words to ride the wind so well
or tell him how it feels to rule the sky.
If it is real, the world in which we live,
then we must feel its chill upon the cheek;
the reassurance that the cold winds give
cannot be found in any words we speak.
We have to feel the snow upon its wings
to know the message that the cold wind brings.

© roy ballard 2012


Old lady

This is the time of Michaelmass blue daisies,
of frosts not far ahead and a late sun,
of a small, grey lady pausing, slowly walking,
who loves the long, blue daisies,
the late sun and the frosts not far ahead.
So she comes singing past the church and talking.
She's scattering her verses, one by one.
Like dust they dance the long, reflected trail
that glances off each casement in the sun;
they join with frankincense and galingale,
the smoke of silver censers, swayed and spun,
with sweet flag, cinammon and lemongrass.
Too old, these casements, to be worth the mending,
they yet flash sunlight to a distant pass
where one who waits can read what they are sending
and learns her songs which never have an ending.

© roy ballard 2012


Alzheimer's
I met him in the garden where the roses grow.
He stole away so secretly, so silently and slow.
Though now he can't remember me he smiles and says hallo
for the simple, social graces are the last to go.

The ivy and the bramble, the sharp and peevish sloe
are equal to the roses in the hoar frost and the snow
and summer turns to winter when they creep and overgrow
the roses in the garden that you used to know.

© roy ballard 2012


Field of dreams
As evening lets its fragrant shadows slip
beneath the cedar where we laugh and sip
the ghost of a player comes out from the corn
and asks in a low voice
'Is this heaven'.

I was there once
among the evening sun and the pine cones
picnicking on champagne and friendship.
Seven ballons passed:
one was all green diamonds;
another shot with rainbows, bubble blown;
one precious amber, glowing in the sun;
a cardinal came next in crimson silk;
a dark one, witchlike;
then one in navy-grey, no colour at all
and one in every kind of blue:
acid-blue, azure-blue, basic-blue, brilliant-blue,
Cambridge-, litmus-, navy-, prussian-, rhodanile-,
ultramarine-, xylenol-, xylidyl-,
deep sea-, south sea-, shallow sea, wine-dark sea-,
Oxford-blue and rook-black-ultra-blue...
to name but a few.
You could not tell where one blue stopped and another started.
They all laughed, these balloons, as they passed
and we all laughed back.
The owls and the sheep laughed too
and even the silver satellite
who had gone up far too high
and was no longer in this world.
A thousand heavens of the evening passed
unmarked, like strangers, all unknown,.
They left unrecognised, alas, alas,
wrapped in a moment each and quickly gone.

© roy ballard 2012


By Mount Ybba Moghrair (27 North by 41 East)

Inflaming at the end of night,
a sudden blaze of hostile light,
the sun comes darting on the tents,
the savage spires, the wild ascents
and barren lands where Moghrair stands.

No morning call of bird, no dove
foretells the flight of stars above;
the distant mountains fade and quiver,
they ripple on a molten river
and  morning comes with beating drums.

A dry wind hurries down the waste;
it chokes the breath, it shrivels taste,
the earth is cracked, the body spent;
a fiery light pours through the tent
and all thoughts yearn the night's return.

Dusk comes at last;  the air turns cool;
the cold moon rises from a pool
of airy deeps and purple trails,
of starry gowns and lacey veils.
The herdsman, weary of the sun,
gives thanks to God the day is done.
He goes to find the common fire,
a cup, a song, the heart's desire,
refreshing rest and talk of rain.
Dawn brings the deadly rays again.

© roy ballard 2012


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.
Busy moles and worms interning,
leaves and mould to nettles turning.
Turning!
Turning, turning; fallen petals
unremembered turn to nettles.

It’s time that damps the lovers’ flame.
Impatient time cannot delay
obliterating every name
and rushing everything away.
Time is blinkered, love is ranging
ever further, ever changing.
Changing!
Changing, changing as we lie,
changing into love gone by.

 

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.