distant train --
sparrows skim the pond
for a drink
sparrows skim the pond
for a drink
|
The monks from the forgotten friary
would be dismayed if their ghosts roam over the pebbles of the Friary Gardens to view litter and cigarette butts but I prefer to admire the flowers: a rainbow of colours, they gently sway in the sunshine on this September day. It's an oasis away from city streets, hedges immaculate on the maze as the Marquess of Bute looks on. The bells of the City Hall ring as I wander over to the hidden canal, magpies perch on trees, I wish to remain but must venture into the world again. An old photograph of the Penarth Head Inn
taken way back in the 1860s shows a woman in the doorway and some men outside, all long since ghosts. The top windows are open hinting at summer and a figure strolls towards the inn perhaps preparing for a night of sin. Edwards the Smuggler enjoyed ale here, what tales he must have told yet now it has morphed into the Custom House with two up-market fish restaurants but I adore these ancient photographs depicting life from a different age decades before the pier...took centre stage. I observe the moth flickering
against the night window as it tries to reach my bedroom light. It's white like a spectre, not realising a little window is open yet it zooms up and down the closed one as the cat, equally stupid, attempts to catch it from inside. But if the moth succeeds in gaining access on its journey towards the light it will probably be killed by the cat yet lack of consciousness can be a blessing for we fear danger where none exists, moths and cats have no thoughts of tomorrow ah, but we have...and that is our sorrow. Said the ant to the flea,
you can jump higher than me; which seems only to confirm my view. That all creatures on earth, have a very different girth, especially around the knee. I almost ran over a peacock while driving
this morning, as he slowly crossed the street in front of oncoming traffic, leaving illusory images of turquoise and emerald green feathers floating unrestrained in front of my car hood, flowing up toward a bird heaven. The green and blue hues of his plume were spoiled by a splash of liquid red, a natural source of color, gained in an unnatural way. But do not worry for all is well, Mr. Peacock still lives on to face another day and another unskilled attempt on his life. Ah, that hot summer of ’76
I remember it so vividly sunbathing in my garden during the school holidays before going up to university chock-full of hopes and dreams! Forty-two years hence we have another such one even hotter they say which makes me reflect on the vast abyss of time between these two summers that span my adult years. Now, I wear a hat outside to stave off this modern sun which with our knowledge of climate change and UV rays is more dangerous these days no longer the friend it was before. Reminiscing about that season of golden youth whose dreams have never quite been fulfilled this sun that beats down upon me seems to burn up my very soul. So delicate
This feeling before it turns into love The heartbeat flutters The brow dampens The tongue stutters So passionate This feeling of being in love The heart pounds The mouth becomes dry Imagined halos grace the air Above lovers’ heads So poisonous This feeling of falling out of love Words are an annoyance Glances cause concern Touches are avoided Lips hold in words better left unsaid Monet would have adored these ponds
with a rainbow of flowers waving from the picturesque banks, water lilies and cobalt dragon flies swirling over the placid water as stone musicians peer down at the scene I imagine them playing tunes serene. Water gently rolls along petite steps, the sound relaxing the psyche as ducks glide under a summer sky belonging to a tropical land white butterflies flickering in the soft air. I pause for a while at this magical place, just for now stress disappears from my face. I grieve about those who have gone,
they haunt from time to time aware that I ought to embrace the balmy evening, breeze cool after the fierce furnace of the day. Pink roses and red berries have faded in the dying light and a fox scurries across the grass as the moon begins her night shift and clouds ghost past her full round form. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 100 words remains the approximate target. 
Archives
January 2021
|
