Spout

Spout

Don't tell me
it's a mental pursuit,
all in my head, when
the word spout
was right there, in the bed
with me this morning.
sibilant, sensuous S, sine wave,uncoiling energy into the soft pot bellied P
that held it tenuously.
before the slow spilling au sounding OU
which holds the all of everything in its holy sound,
and the energy flicked, ticked T.
my body 
drew the shape of it
I felt it in the pout of my lips
not the 'outpour' phrase that they use in the news,
that I hate,
but the fountain sprout from our mouths
that destroys or creates
everything before us.

Allotment

Allotment : ( uh-lot-muh-nt )
definitions
: a share granted
: a plot of land rented to a gardener


penny poor and joy
expectant, stumbling
into your arms I greet
thumb thick tangled brambles
two metres high.
undug, undone, undunged
weed smothered, covered with unwanted
crouching grass holding on whatever, through
wild conversations with unforgiving nature.

drunk slump shed
like me, weathered into
just about functional submission
windows missing, leaking life
I will breathe you back
into some shabby sheltering,
quirkly attractive.

sighing salvation comes
in many mysterious ways
but I have gloves and secateurs
and a deep adoring love of rust.
left for rotten
corner hidden
sunlight slanted like a hint,
what gnarled knuckle hand
held and delved for another kind of victory
with this ancient fork I hold aloft
with a laughing treasure-found shout.

From a meadowsweet mouth...

From a meadowsweet mouth a spill of promises…

Old soldiers are mustering at my borders,
muttering fork tongued manoeuvres, brandishing
their certainties in my direction.
But I tell you now,
there will be no war on my land.
No frowning lines will mark my soil,
the only horizontals here will be the laying down
of deep earthy browns into winter's waiting arms.
No shining steel will dare to slice
the nestling nematodes that nurture
any tiny web of roots to growth.

Instead, there will be promises of blue, a lush of layered greens, a kiss of red.
White frothing sweeps of lacewing petticoats, and tangy garlanding of herbs.
Here there will be, for a soft eye,
only gentle, sweeping curves.
A graceful willowing for the sweet and the green, an open invitation
to any wing and generous leavings for the carapace ones.
From here, we will understand the patience of rain, smell the sighing mist,
find the languorous, full bellied fruition of a September Sunday.
Summer shouts, as loud as sunflowers, will rise above the dreary, daily bending,
for I will practise the soft art of fruiting fresh breezes and billowing beds
and I will stitch myself a capacious apron for the gathering in,
after
I spit the seeds from the mouth of Eve
and sow a song of heaven right here,
in this garden of a life.

Driftwood

Driftwood

Peppered earth and wood smoke

herald your presence

behind me,

so slight the turn

 and tilt of my head.

 An invitation.

 An offering.

Your hair redolent

 with sea salt tang

touches my cheek.

Clover stroke .

Raspberry down lips

 dry brush my throat,

your bent head

a tender blessing,

 blossom  bruised by air.

With the smell

of damson still sweet

on your breath,

you whisper,

and cinnamon scented echoes

fill my head.

A Sigh and a Feather

A Sigh and a Feather

A long time ago, in a faraway place

an angel fell to earth
                                   and

                                               as

                                                                   she

                                               fell

she learned
that there is only silence
when angels fall, there is no sound,
no
Explosion of Anger
no Shout
of Explanation
only falling
silence

she learned that disappointment
can be a Cruelly Mute
thing
and that sometimes,
stillness
carries disapproval
ln it's
Terrible Hush.

All she had
was the soft rush
of the wind that she took for a sigh
and one
single

sorry
                              feather

                                                                                     floating

                 to

            her

feet.

Reasons for Blogging No. 4

I'm a cat person.
I'm a mid range introvert ...is that why..
I love their containment, intuition ,mystery, their sensuality. 
and the fact they love sleeping in the warmest, cosiest place they can find.

I heard : what you see in the world is yourself reflected back.
That explains it then...
'tho I may appear aloof at times ( you just dont understand me ) I'm the affectionate kind of cat that will jump into almost any suitable lap 
after Ive checked out who you really are  or if you have cake.

During a very busy time in my life Lebowski cat would  slide himself under my hand, wriggle into my conversations and stupidly (I thought)  try to sit on my lap when I was in the bathroom taking a pee.
I now  interpret this bathroom behaviour as the intelligent universe trying to tell me to slow down, that this small black messenger-of-the-gods  was trying to tell me to relax,
take some time and my attention to smell the roses.

Now I have  a dog...I must have said yes... I know I said yes.. well anyway...
well here's Charlie

and yes, the universe is kind, he is a chilled, older guy, amazingly loving and wisely intelligent ..But I am thrust into the alarmingly extrovert  world of dogs.
Their sometimes inane exuberance and enthusiasm exaughsts me, their uncouth behaviour puzzles.. me but is that wise old universe now telling me something different...?

I need to get out more ..
It's true... ask anyone.. I need to be more social...  lets face it Ive been  hibernating ..
I need to reconnect with the wonder and joy thats lurking beneath
I need to take deep breaths of fresh air and play.
Im listening universe..
So Im getting my boots on and walking out into the world....metaphorically and literally.

Come on Charlie..get your very annoying high pitched squeaky squealing tormented ball
thing.....lets go ..
but just so you know..
Im not sniffing any bottoms....

Walking

We drove out to Kingsclere, parking right outside the tumbledown cottage where I was born.
We crossed the road and headed up a track through the trees, 
hello to man trimming his hedge...he reassured us this was the right way to Hannington mast...
coming out of the cool canopy of trees, on our left fields and high hedges, 
to our right amid velvet green,
a paddock for the horses sat in a bowl of shallow hills 
rising steep at the far right with the mast up there
 boosting signals like something out of starwars.
Up the long side of the paddock... glimpses of stables and homes 
that can afford horseflesh and the time and space 
for its precious upkeep. 
Talk of teenager's troubles and leavings
wriggle my way out of my sweater
sun warmed air on my skin


we reach the tree line
straight up ahead to the mast ?
no... we decide to walk along the tree lined ridge.
under the beech trees we are deciphering who loves who in living treebark 30 years ago..
wondering if they still do..or even remember each other..oh cynical us.
talk of our dead brothers and wonderful wise hindu men living.
we eat blackberries
the path winds around above the road
we laugh and puff all with the same breath at the view out across the valley
reaching the top ...a car park
laughing enviously but declining to join
four pensioners camped out eating lunch at that splendid view.

we cross the road to the gallops.
onto the downs proper...wayfarers walk, which will take you all the way to Portsmouth..
tho why is anyone's guess !
Breathing
long slow
winding track
families out walking ..dogs galore
couples holding hands
looking for a view to background their memories.
we leave them strolling far behind and make for the crest
and shoeless by now
over a stile onto the sacred soft carpet of gallops
saving delicate horse ankles we walk, strung out yet more relaxed than ever, 
there it is 
The View
we lay down in silence and sun 
breathe 
no really really breathing..
like the first time..
all rushing air, separation pain
then quiet wonderment
a whole precious half hour

the world three quarters sky
a valley full of trees and patchwork colours

walking down the escarpment steep I lag behind
she says ..
' what have you found now?
everywhere you go ..you find stuff'
we laugh at the funny ways of long time friends.
this time it is a pheasant's feather
and a small shape of peace.