Blog Archives

Ghost Runner in the Summer Air, by Guy Fletcher

30/7/2018

I seem to see him running up the hill
(running is too generous a word)
viewing streets from deep in the past,
a familiar route mostly in his dreams
where his steps are so much lighter.
He cannot replace lost youth with long hair,
ghost runner in the summer air.

I imagine sweat rolling down his brow
as he ruminates about the young woman
so fleet of foot he trained with once
back in marathon days decades ago
when time stretched like the universe.
But next year he'll be back, if it's God's will
running up the same hill...yet slower still.

Summer Tree, by Guy Fletcher

23/7/2018

The red berries bounce gently
on verdant leaves peering down
onto parched grass turned blond
by a relentless summer sun.
I wish I could watch you paint the scene,
specks of blood on a sea of green

and framed by a sunset adding fire
to innocuous clouds.
I miss you as I sit outside:
your touch, idiosynchracies and laughter.
Into the indifferent air I call your name
take a photograph...but it's not the same.

First He Came for the Democrats, by Gordon Lawrie

22/7/2018

First he came for the Democrats,
And although I spoke out I did nothing else
Because I was not a Democrat.

Then he came for the Mexicans
And although I spoke out I did nothing else
Because I was not a Mexican.

Then he came for the Europeans
And although I spoke out I did nothing else
Because we had decided not to be Europeans.

And then he came for me
And there was no one left to protect me.

Swimming at Coryton Cove, by Guy Fletcher

16/7/2018

It was a strange, surreal afternoon
as I gingerly stepped into the water
avoiding the stones and then enduring
just a few seconds of cold pain
before the placid sea freed my soul
surpassing any artificial high
swimming under an azure summer sky.

My brother, from a faraway land,
sat on the causeway and waved
with my dear friend on the sun-kissed sand
taking photographs as I slowly
swam into turquoise water deep.
Ah, I felt a slight fear but so much more,
invigorated; staring at the shore

to the red sandstone rocks of Coryton Cove
wondering how many people over the years
had washed their petty woes away
dissolving like the snowy sizzling foam.
My spiritual cup had been refilled
with moments of magic which will stay
in memories...until my dying day.

The Bishop's Palace, Llandaff, by Guy Fletcher

9/7/2018

It is a perfectly glorious summer's day
as I enter the ruins of the Bishop's Palace.
The spire of Llandaff Cathedral is in view
whose melodious tones enchant my ears.
I am where the gardener's cottage stood
perhaps his spirit still roams the flowerbeds,
it's now a sea of green with slanting trees
leaves, flowers dancing in the balmy breeze.

There's no need to venture afar
when treasures are nearby,
thirteenth century ruins
framed by a cerulean sky.
There were bishops long before Cardiff made its name
and I wonder if they found their nirvana.
I watch a squirrel clamber up a tree
quite unaware of its history.

The Silence of Space, by Guy Fletcher

2/7/2018

I am king of the world on the mountain top
neon lights from the city far below,
streets sweltering in the soporific air
each home with its own Shakespearean
triumphs and also disasters
but here a soft breeze caresses my face
as I peer up at the silence of space

and realise I am no more
than chaff blowing in the wind
with the indifferent O-shaped moon
casting my shadow as if a ghost
yet I'm glad to escape the stifling city
to be free if only for a short hour
humble...as I stare at nature's power.

The Seabirds of Lord Howe Island, by Ian Fletcher

1/7/2018

Such foolish creatures
they mistake it for food
and feed it to their young
who fly from their nests
to forage vainly in the sea
their stomachs still filled
with it and so clogged up
there’s no room left at all
to digest their natural prey
hunted from time immemorial.

For such obtuse creatures
their fate is sealed as
they cannot adapt to it
since it arrived so fast
they cannot even mutate
and stubbornly persist to
perish in thousands there
on the lonely Pacific island
in the middle of nowhere.

How many of us are aware
when we discard our plastic
and think it merely trash
that it will float intact around
our seas for countless centuries
to choke the very life out of
such silly creatures as these?

​Ghost Runner in the Summer Air, by Guy Fletcher