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The Silver Usk, by Guy Fletcher

26/11/2016

The silver Usk languidly winds its way
under the fine, five-arched bridge,
picturesque on this sultry summer's day
as I relax, slowly closing eyelids,
hearing children play in the river
and the sweet tone of bells from the church;
a Sunday I wish could last forever.
The breeze caresses me with its touch.

The sun is welcome on my dreamy brow
as I feel all that matters is now.

I open my eyes, watch a leaf fall down,
to the soothing sound of hissing trees.
The leaf will turn a crispy brown,
crumbling in hands like dreams.
Clouds drift almost imperceptibly by
on this lazy, somnolent afternoon,
and it's an azure Arabian sky.
With deep regret I'll leave here soon

but I pity those who never find time
to savour days when the world is sublime.

A Rainy Day at Wagor High School, by Ian Fletcher

23/11/2016

How I welcome the rain pouring
down on this grey and gloomy day
for it is as if I have never been away
from South Wales and the green,
green grass of my all too distant home.

Yet Taiwan is an arid land and this rain
falls on the high school’s artificial lawn
with the sun’s searing heat soon to return
making this brief interlude a deceptive scene,
my thoughts of home insubstantial as a dream.

Dark Clouds Over Tintern Abbey, by Guy Fletcher

21/11/2016

Image: Pam Brophy/Creative Commons)

I am where Wordsworth penned his famous verse
on the winding road to Tintern Abbey
where the scent of mint fills the air,
mist on the hills making the Abbey
an even more mysterious vista.
The empty arches show different films:
sometimes with blue sky, sometimes stars
but today I view a blackening ether.

Suddenly white doves settle on the ruins
as if the spirits of the "White Monks,"
a Cisterian order since 1131
when this magnificent abbey was built.
They came to find God and live
a simple life far from maddening crowds
and I seem to hear a ghost choir in the damp air.

Super Moon, by Guy Fletcher

15/11/2016

(Alsen/Pixabay)

I walk through the park relishing fresh air
as the super moon appears over the hospital
where I have left a sick woman
slumbering under human lights.
Thin ghost clouds drift over the moon
and the full globe wears a halo
but cares nothing for the poor souls
trapped in the terrifying land of the ill.
It is not the moon but surgeons
who are their gods, natural light shines
from the brightest, nearest moon for many years
as trees whisper to each other in the wind.
I am not quite sure about God but pray
as menacing clouds wipe the moon away.

She Should Have Left The Party Long Ago, by Guy Fletcher

14/11/2016

She should have left the party long ago,
this is not her time any more.
I glimpse a pale young lady
but she does not utter a word,
yet words are cheap and beauty is rare,
she's attached to the grand old house.
Ah, but I have found her in cyberspace,
illusive blonde with enigmatic face.

I could fall in love with her,
there will be no more acrimony
and my heart would not be broken (again).
She usually appears when the music is loud
and dances with the shadows,
an alluring woman with platinum hair.
I can do nothing to ease her sorrow,
she should have left the party long ago.

The River By The High School, by Ian Fletcher

11/11/2016

The River Han flows on and on
wending its calm and peaceful way
past Wagor High School every day.
Though its quiet beauty is ignored
by all the young souls inside there
the wise old river has not a care
for it will flow ever on and on
long after this generation has gone.

Cascading, by Siobhan Christie Vanessa Luff

11/11/2016

Time
is a healer
And time
is a creator.
But without time,
you can do such harm

With your charms
and your cherubic face,
you take my hand
and with an air of painful grace
you rip it from mine; demand
that we're over and done.
That you're not too sure.
Oh darlin' hand me that gun
as you walk through that door.

Time is your friend.
Time I recommend,
will take you from damn uncertainty
to quite sweet serendipity.

If the world dissipates,
From a lamenting, loveless earthquake.
The hands of time will mend and repair
the broken plains of natures despair.
So the cracks and holes between us,
we can mend, we can clean the rust.
We can cement over the shrivelled patches
the doubts and regrets your heart often catches.

Time will replenish what we both have damaged.
It will take the stress, help us manage.
Step by step it comes to pass
what we have now, shapes a legacy to last

If you shut your eyes and count to five,
you'll find the world newly revitalised.
You'll see some beautiful nature amidst the dust.
Just please whatever you do, don't let the world cascade down on us.

Night Tide, by Guy Fletcher

8/11/2016

I can hear the angry, long-drawn out
hiss of the mighty ocean
retreating from the shingled shore
like a blanket on this star-freckled night,
circled moon with the power
to manoeuvre seas, staring indifferently
as the last embers of the fire flicker.

The moon illuminates the black ocean
with a shiny corridor of silver,
but now my thoughts are dark as the sea
as the rhythmic tide carries on unconcerned.
We are masters of the beach tonight,
under the stars I stroke her golden hair
and feel a chill...it is not the night air.

The Ghost Of Sylvia Plath, by Guy Fletcher

5/11/2016

I saunter past Newnham College
on a cold star-freckled night,
biting east wind from the Russian Steppes.
I feel the ghost of Sylvia Plath;
she would have watched tonight's full moon with awe
now with a celestial halo
as a thin cloud sedately passes by
underneath a wintertime Cambridge sky.

I picture a girl on a red bicycle
briefly free from troubled thoughts,
wind rushing through blonde locks.
She would have appreciated bronze
gates and Victorian grandeur.
I feel the ghost of Sylvia Plath,
sense she was contented here for a while
cycling in Cambridge with a youthful smile.

Poetry

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