30 November – Autumn’s legacy

Autumn’s legacy is mulch.
Strange to think
all that colour
comes down
to this.

Bleeding into one dark mess
of sliding stick –
a quagmire
of treacle
squelch.

But here in the written-off refuse
as heavy boots crush
and cold fronts mush,
a kind of magic
gets released.

And deep in the earth
when it’s seeped out
its worth,
sleeping shades
will stir again.

So trust in the dirt
of muddy endings
to slowly rebirth
something beautiful
in time.

30 November - Autumn's legacy

29 November – The last stand

Autumn’s last stand
is one small flag
flying at full mast
on the final branch
to bear the colours.
But like them all
this too will fall,
deserting its post
and giving up the ghost
as Winter’s winds win.
And when it goes,
that’s when I’ll know,
this season is done.
The next must be begun –
it is time to surrender.

28 November – Partners

The turner of the turf and the scourer of the earth
are partners.
Symbiotic sympathisers.

The first digs and toils to move leaves and soil
while the other
watches from the wheelbarrow.

Usually so territorial, Robin gives up being censorial
when the spade’s out,
shape-shifting from watchbird to welcomer.

Eyes on the main chance, poised for opportune advance,
he darts in,
claiming each new-surfaced feast.

And Gardener is cheered when Robin hops so near,
grows motivated
to linger long past last light.

Together they diligently work, synchronised sifters of mud and dirt,
looking for life
where others only think to tread.

28 November - Partners

27 November – Bracken beauty

Not every life achieves a zenith in its glory days.
Some shine best as they ebb and fall away,
like bracken gilding the growing grey.
I’m not inspired by its bold summer strength
but by its triumph as it bronzes and bends,
drenching moors in molten gold just before it ends.
At the late and last is where it truly peaks,
laying down its life to burnish the bleak
with brilliant broken beauty burning quietly weak.

26 November – Overindulging

Haw munchers and hip crunchers are dominating the trees
as flocks of fieldfares fan out for their flying, foraging feast.
Like locusts descending, there’s a scorched earth policy,
each gorger committed to stripping off every berry.
They eat like teenage boys with constantly bottomless appetites
that hardly even pause to swallow between endless bites.
Is there a frenzy to it, as the last Autumn days drift by,
like stockpiling groceries when you’ve got plenty put by?
Or taking another chocolate, just so you don’t miss out,
when you’re already uncomfortably full and there’s considerable doubt
that you have any room left to squeeze another mouthful in,
but still you plough on, much to your own half-horrified chagrin?
This is how I imagine they feel as their bird bellies stretch and bulge,
but of course I don’t know if it’s true as I can’t get them to divulge
what it’s like to depend so completely on seasonal fare,
and just how stark a spectre looms when the branches become bare.

26 November - Overindulging

25 November – Moor grass’ moment

The day is greyed to dingy almost dark,
the leaves have left the trees alone and stark,
but on the ground there are still occasional sparks
of colour.

My addict eyes have searched all around
for any remaining traces to be found
and here, elevated to stardom on the ground,
is moor grass.

Tussocks of green with long sandy tips
pepper my path with urgent little hits
of mist-beating, murk-defeating tiny tints
of colour.

And today, in the drear, it is enough
to discover even humble, forgotten tufts
can shine sheer beauty in a world that can be tough
on moor grass.

24 November – Squirrel watching

When the coloured canopy has fallen away,
look to the trees for more visible displays
of agile acrobats clad in white and grey.

Now the cover is gone, better watch them leap and fly,
treetop-bound creatures reaching for the skies,
mastering twig twine tightropes at dizzying heights.

Like everyone, I’m defensive of their more fragile, red kin,
but I can’t take against them, this is the thing,
for who can watch their antics without a grin?

Trunks, branches, gravity – each one in turn submits
to the dare-devil dancers with wings in their feet;
there’s nothing dull in how they rule and rise above the street.

So do me a favour, don’t rail against the greys
just because they accidentally drove the reds away;
simply marvel at their most impressive play.

23 November – Michelen-starred moor

If you want to taste truly gorgeous gourmet food,
don’t book a posh restaurant, head for your nearest wood,
or better yet trek for miles and climb a long, steep hill;
spread a blanket on the moor, then sit and eat your fill.
Never mind the mizzle or the fierce, gusting wind,
this is where Michelin-starred dining truly begins.
Replace fine wines with flasks of well brewed tea;
make the menu sliced spiced cake smeared in rich toffee.
What is the science behind the supremacy of outside food?
Is it working up an appetite that makes it taste this good?
Is it some kind of reaction with plain old fresh air
that creates culinary triumphs out of ordinary fare?
The best fish and chips are always eaten on the beach,
go ahead, keep testing this philosophy I preach.
I dare you to try and find something that tastes better
inside than outside, even in inclement weather.
So go on, treat yourself, dine out in your woolies,
crown yourself the connoisseur, king of all the foodies.

23 November - Michelin-starred moor

22 November – Drawing in

More and more light seeps through the cracks of each day
as morning sleeps in and dusk nudges afternoon out of the way.
The sun is growing distant, when it deigns to show,
as if it’s silently sulking with everyone below.
And mist muffles the world with cold encroaching gloom
that makes us think the evening cannot come to soon.
At least then the fire will blaze and the lights can all burn bright,
we don’t feel the darkness so keenly when it’s supposed to be night.
Roll on December’s promise, when the struggle turns the other way,
and growing light diffuses in again, more and more each day.
Hold on through the shortest days now, through the longest nights,
be thankful that this dimming drawing in is a temporary plight.

21 November – Lads at large

Strutting about in their cocky crowing crowd,
a stag party of pheasants define loud and proud.
Dressed to the nines and swaggering through the field,
what high life do they think our little village will yield?
What dares are they planning and who is the groom?
I hope their hens will peck them into line again soon.
Meanwhile they’ll continue on as if they own the place,
guffawing and cawing constantly with no social grace.
The day is only just beginning, have they any shame?
Were they out all night long playing wild drinking games?
I leave them all behind, retreating to the peace of home,
I hope they keep out of my garden and leave me well alone.

20 November – Nature’s gift

The presents and cards are piling up for me
and the house smells of cinnamon rolls, deliciously.
The bunting is hung and the party’s all organised,
the perfect day starts to unwrap before my eyes.
But what will you bring me to celebrate this day?
Could I request a sighting of some hares at play?
I wish I could submit a lengthy letter to you –
a wish list of everything I’d like you to do;
I’d say please strew animal encounters all through today,
preferably peppered with humour to keep the ageing blues away,
and polish up the weather till it has a brilliant shine
that lights up each wonder you intend to make mine.
But perhaps the best gift is really the surprise – the mystery –
of never quite knowing what you’re going to give me.
So I’ll set off with my friends, everything else fully planned,
but leave your gift up to your spontaneous, subversive hands.

19 November – Raging river

Land-shaper,
ground reclaimer,
swelling with the flood
of moorland streams
and becks’ best dreams
pouring from above.
Storm snatcher,
deluge catcher,
racing full and free;
gush your ardour
into harbours,
re-fill the placid sea.
Express your rage,
we understand this stage,
you have to vent your flow
till you’re spent and drained
and restore restraint
by reinstating rippling low.

18 November – Winter blossom

Just when so many trees stand stripped back stark and bare,
Viburnum gently creates delicate colour and honey-scented air.
It’s like cherry blossom in November, exactly when you need it most,
as if Winter’s shyly haunted by Spring in clusters of blush-pink ghosts.
Each year now I look for its flowers, a treat to ease the loss of bright
and keep me going till December and the stringing of fairy lights.
I’d plant it on every street, if I was in charge of the nation,
where it would lift each muted spirit with its beautiful, fragrant sensations.
So let’s hear it for Viburnum, late blooming heroine of Fall,
may she multiply and flourish, and blossom broad and tall.

18 November - Winter blossom

17 November – Fly-off

The curtains go up
on an early morning show
as Kite, Crow and Sparrowhawk
fight a fly-off in the glow.
”Wings at dawn!”
is their battle cry
as each competing warrior
claims the same sky.
Mobbing, jeering, swooping,
executing elegant aggression,
each one is determined
to make no concessions.
Who will win the territory
and dominate the air?
None of them are interested
in trying to play fair.
Kite plummets first,
a muscle-bomb let loose,
talons outstretched wide
ready to tear and bruise.
This is war –
to the victor go the spoils,
rapturous raptor charges
as his bird blood boils.
Crow and Sparrowhawk circle,
reluctant to submit,
but it looks like Kite is king
and that is the end of it.

17 November - Fly-off

16 November – Tipping point

Suddenly Autumn is conquered by fierce winds from the east
and pours out all her colour as she hastily retreats.
The canopy of gold that yesterday blazed strong
has been seized and separated and is almost gone.
The trees stand weeping their last remaining tears,
trying to remember there’ll be new growth next year.
And what’s left of all their beauty is spilled out on the ground,
a fleeting magic carpet of November’s lost and found.
Tomorrow I’ll look for wonder in newly-skeletoned trees,
but today I only want to feel Autumn’s farewell grief.

15 November – Tree people

Some tree bark looks almost exactly like smooth skin
that’s been stretched and puckered over wood-bone limbs.
And once you notice it creasing round particular points
you can’t help but think those points are just like joints.
And once you’ve got started on this line of reflection,
you’ll begin to see arboreal humans in every direction.
Roughened bark brings nothing but wrinkles to mind
and each sycamore has gnarly knees to find.
Good luck not perceiving branches now as fingers reaching out,
and being sure it’s just the wind that’s moving them about.
What is it about us that sees ourselves everywhere,
projecting characters and motives on to creatures, plants and air?
Still there’s little more wonderful than taking a creative walk,
ignoring your rational self and letting your imagination talk.

14 November – Sparrowhawk’s orders

Drop the leaves,
bare the trees,
reveal my prey to me.
Russet the land,
camouflage my brand,
make me hard to see.
Dim the days,
up the haze,
this is my time to shine.
Autumn weather
is just my feather,
it’s one long dinner time.
Sorry to alarm
but I am here to harm,
it’s how I’m wired you see.
So do be a dear,
don’t let on I’m here
while I’m hunting from your tree.

14 November - Sparrowhawk's orders

13 November – Delivery day

Stacking and packing logs out in the cold,
picturing weeks of warming fires as I pick and hold
each chunk of potential in my grateful hands,
recognising wood-piling helps me better understand
the cost of the heat my winter body seeks,
the gift that is held in each piece of tree.
There is a kind of grounding, connecting education
that builds as I build the stack in tessellation.
And as I mindfully take each log out from the bag,
what do you know? One smiles back.

12 November – Grey play

I usually view mist as a stealer of sights,
a dampener of colour; a duller of light,
a smothering enemy of diversion and delight.
But today’s fog gives me cause to reassess this view
as although it’s absolutely dimming every hue,
it’s also making masterpieces from all-day dew.
Each spider’s weaving is outlined with watery gems
revealing high tightrope paths, and full, storybook webs,
and little liquid fairy lights gleam on every twig’s end.
Then from deep in the gloom comes a donkey’s bray,
like a phantom’s scream piercing through the grey –
if I didn’t know better, I’d expect foul play.
As it is, after the shock, it makes me laugh
when this sudden crazy sound penetrates the murky path,
like the whole wild world is speaking up on my behalf.
It seems then that even mist and fog can play their part
in creating show-stoppers of brand new natural art,
which means even the bleakest days can still lift my heart.

11 November – Poppy day

Millions of poppies brightly bloom though it’s long past July,
and even their former seed heads have long since said goodbye.
I see them planted in coats and strung up in the air,
bringing memories of forgotten fields to every thoroughfare.

Grandad’s tales tell again though he’s no longer here to speak,
they play freshly round my mind in precious, looping repeats.
I know now he softened his stories in a child-friendly way –
narrating how he kissed worms in relief and bought Nana French lingerie.

The histories I’ve heard and read over years tumble back to the fore,
myriad mosaic struggles of so many people’s Second World War.
I let them bloom out of season – bravery, drudgery, loss, freedom, regret –
to receive poppy seeds of wisdom lest I grow complacent and forget.

But I also remember I don’t yet live in a season of real peace,
others’ wars rage on even when Western news coverage has ceased.
I must not see the poppy as a laurel, or a relic of something past,
but pray for true remembrance to motivate peace-building that lasts.

Millions of poppies brightly bloom though it’s long past July,
covering November in blood-red flowers till it’s time to say goodbye.
I welcome their beauty, their time-bending truth, and their poignant call,
I will try to tend them always, inside, even after they fall.

10 November – Autumn debris

Down on the bank, the path is covered by leaves
and it’s easy to slip on hidden acorn scree –
stockpiles of seed surplus to growing need
roll on rough ground and get under your feet.
So be careful as you crunch through all that fallen copper
that you don’t join the falling trend and find you come a cropper
of the bounty that is broken and discarded underneath –
the health and safety hazard that is Autumn’s debris.

9 November – Silver-throated dashers

Why doesn’t every poet celebrate the long tailed tit?
I simply cannot understand the reason for it.
Perhaps they haven’t noticed them bobbing in the trees
like little feathered yo-yos flung up at ninety degrees.
Perhaps they haven’t taken in their delicate pink blush
or experienced the joy of the singular rush
that comes from seeing a small flock of them all alight,
brightening baring branches with whimsical delight.
Perhaps they don’t know that these cheerful dancing troupes
include designated helpers alongside their family groups.
Perhaps they’re unaware of this bird’s superior social system,
its constant communal care and corporate foraging wisdom.
It’s time for the long tailed tit to rise to greater fame,
to be drawn and sung and rhymed and sewn into a household name.
Then no more woodland walkers will fail to look up and see
these brilliant little birds that mean so much to me.

8 November – Full tint Fall

To get even one tree
to full tint
without a hint
of green to see
requires mastery.

Titian apprentices seek
frequent cold nights
but no frostbite
to perfect their riches
without early-dropping hitches.

They prefer it dry
to deepen colour
across their cover,
compelling sugars to weave
each gold, copper and ruby leaf.

Then they demand
bright sunny days,
and winds kept at bay
to add more dazzling depth
before blazing out towards death.

And that is why
only some Autumns shimmer
with that extra magic glimmer
as intensely vibrant, shining hues
conquer every deciduous tree in front of you.

7 November – The Coventry cow

At the edge of the field,
in the corner, on its own,
stands the Coventry cow –
completely alone.
What has it done wrong
to be shunned to this degree?
Will it ever be forgiven?
Does the guilt weigh heavily?
Poor estranged cow,
left to think upon its shame,
I hope it will be welcomed back
by its herd again.

6 November – Sloe living

You have to slow down if you want to see the sloes
scattering blue berries across the starkening hedgerows.
You will not spot them ripening if you move past too quickly,
so unhurry your pace and take the time to get your hands sticky.
You have to wait it out if you want to infuse all their flavour,
sloe seasoned delicacies require time-consuming labour.
But you’ll be richly rewarded for the effort you put in
when sloes’ sweet syrup suffuses all through your gin.

5 November – Sky-flower night

Tonight is the night
we grow flowers in the sky,
then watch their fiery seeds
fall to earth and die.

Tonight is the night
we compete with the stars,
creating transitory constellations
to a soundtrack of ”aaaahs”.

Tonight is the night
we huddle round the blaze,
ignoring chilled toes
in a flame-induced daze.

Tonight is the night
everyone’s name’s in lights,
written in the air
by sparkling fireflies.

Tonight is the night
we crunch cinder toffee,
and quaff spiced apple cider
in dubious quantities.

Tonight is the night
we hug each other close,
and celebrate the wonder
of our annual firework dose.

4 November – Stowaway II

See how far
you get by car,
little leaf hitchhiker.
Cling to windscreen,
ride the machine,
watch out for the wiper…
Up the A roads,
through new postcodes:
make the motorway!
Hold on tight,
win wind’s fight,
keep on being brave.
Don’t unravel,
then you’ll travel
further than you dream.
Stay this bold,
go for gold,
join the Olympic-leaf team.
Keep going forth,
conquer the north,
perhaps you’ll reach the border.
If you do,
congrats to you,
a ceilidh is in order!

3 November – Game on

Lying on the grass,
by the side of the lane,
a football is resting,
waiting for a game.
But please don’t kick it
for it’s not what it seems,
and I’ll tell you now
what kicking it would mean.
Seven trillion spores
would be let loose in the air,
for this is Giant Puffball
and it doesn’t play fair!
If you don’t withhold your feet,
you’ll have so many more,
all waiting to play along
and release yet more spores…
So be wise now my friend,
back away while you can,
this is not the kind of football
that deserves you as a fan.

2 November – Fieldfare fantasy

If only the fieldfares could tell me what they’ve seen
in all the distant lands where they’ve previously been.
Their stories would sing of northern lights and deep, lush fjords,
of flocking over wide blue seas in one seamless, flying hoard.
They would speak of Russian cities with bright coloured onion domes,
all the sights they’d seen so rapidly on their way to Siberian homes.
They would bring alive for me everywhere I associate with snow,
and weave wild pictures of half the world seen distantly below.
If only I could hear their tales, I’d live their travels vicariously,
and all the wonders they have known would be enough for me.

2 November - Fieldfare fantasy

1 November – Francis’ footsteps

Teach me, like you, to be an instrument of peace,
to walk lightly on this planet with careful feet;
to celebrate what I see rather than extract or dominate,
to love each part of creation for its own sacred sake.
Teach me, like you, to recognise my kin
in brother wind, sister water, and every familial living thing;
to see the wonder of Creator spun into vista and vole,
to marvel at each detail and the vast, breathtaking whole.
Teach me, like you, to come alongside the earth,
to kneel in humility and elevate her worth;
to speak as her champion, urge protection for her young,
to continue in your footsteps as I have begun.
Teach me, like you, to walk slower than I have,
to be ready for rescue moments, and to give the help I can;
to turn my hands to your cause and join in your song,
to praise God with greater reverence for where I belong.

31 October – Arachnid invasion

Have you noticed, as the nights draw in,
an arachnid invasion also begins?
It’s the same every year, around this time,
spiders boldly proclaiming ”your house is also mine”.
I thought invitations worked the other way,
that the owners decided who was welcome to stay.
But at least eight legged friends don’t frighten me any more,
at least not the little ones, not like they did before.
I used to scream for rescue from any creeping long leg,
crying out for my dad to clear up every spider mess!
Now I have grown adept at sharing the same space
without cowering in the corner or shouting down the place.
Good job, as they’re clearly making themselves at home,
and I have next to no control over where they choose to roam.
Oh well, the more the merrier, isn’t that what everyone says?
Though I don’t suppose they’re referring to prolonged arachnid stays!

31 October - Arachnid invasion

30 October – Field trip

Trudging the high ridged furrows,
hoping we’ve found the right track,
eyes down on uneven ground,
trusting it matches the map.
When suddenly our boot vibrations
unwittingly disturb a scrape,
a Jackrabbit-in-the-box leaps up
and hares across the field at pace.
We watch its bounding beauty,
marvelling at wild sprinting grace,
a little, long-eared cheetah
winning the British land-speed race.
Its form gleams bright in the low light,
its movements are sure and bold.
In every sense, for me,
this mammal claims the gold.
The field is transformed to film set,
the hike elevated to legend,
what a moment ago was chore,
I wish would never come to an end.
I will the hare to stay with us
but of course he is bent on retreat,
and the cause of constant freedom
that is hard-wired into his feet.

30 October - Field trip

29 October – Living room gauntlet

The wasp in my lounge is drunk on sleep
and careers into everything with force, at speed.
First it’s the ceiling, then it’s the beams,
what is it imagining in its dreams?
It dive bombs and bounces off almost everything;
I am frightened for its life, but also by its sting.
It’s hard to relax when a weaponised beast
keeps falling from the roof and disturbing the peace.
Eventually it crawls into a crevice to rest,
such a relief, I don’t know which of us was more stressed!

29 October - Living room gauntlet

28 October – Golden sands

Down at the beech beach,
the leaf-sand glows
beyond the reach of the path,
where nobody goes.
I long to vault the wall
and explore this secret stretch,
to curl my toes round golden crunch,
along the river’s edge.
But where no feet have ventured,
the shining remains like virgin snow,
a glimmering colour cover,
gilding the humble browns below.
So I’ll stand considering perfection
for as long as it can last,
committing the beech beach to memory,
where its landscape lives on in the past.

28 October - Golden sands

27 October – Nature’s circus

If a creature harnesses honeysuckle to use as its trapeze,
and swings and leaps with elegance and long practiced ease,
you’d think I’d be eager to celebrate its flair,
and announce its prowess with a wild word fanfare.
But the truth is, this creature, for all of its cunning
is classed in a species that we’re constantly shunning.
We say we want to cultivate wildlife-friendly spaces
but the fact is our welcome isn’t open to all races.
And so it seems my poems baulk at serenading rats,
downplaying their aerial antics, despite the impressive facts.

27 October - Nature's circus

26 October – Faulty alarm clock

Don’t rely on my local rooster
for your early morning alarm call,
unless you have no intention
of keeping any appointments at all.
He can hardly be bothered to crow
until at least half past eleven,
I can only presume he’s still sleeping
when he’d be most useful at seven.
I call him the teenage cockerel
for his lie-ins last legendarily long,
and when he does deign to cock-a-doodle,
it’s a reluctant, embarrassed type of song.
Perhaps he’ll grow into his calling,
piercing the dawn with his squawking cries,
then of course I’ll regret my complaints
and despairingly roll my eyes.
I’ll wish for the halcyon days
when the village could snooze on in peace.
Alas! The bird never wins –
there’s no conquering my caprice.

26 October - Faulty alarm clock

25 October – The night drive

Welcome to the thrill
of the night drive,
where Little Owls rise,
twin-moonlit rabbits dive,
and ghostly sheep appear.
It’s never quite quiet
on the night drive,
where stalwart hedgehogs thrive
and kamikaze bats collide
with the metallic seeker you steer.
So always stay alert
during the night drive,
for this might be the right time
to disbelieve your own eyes
at the creatures that come near.

25 October - The night drive

23 October – Faltering pheasant

Faltering pheasant, this is not the time to dither,
I’ve slammed on the brakes but you must move quicker.
Don’t get confused now, swerving one way then back,
I understand you’re scared but don’t get in a flap.
Head for the hedgerow, wherein lies your salvation,
you’ll get there safely if you stick to one direction.
Faltering pheasant, keep your head together,
don’t be feather-brained, move your actual feathers…
What a surge of relief now you rise above the lane,
but please don’t ever do that to my fragile nerves again.

22 October – Season of mists

The mists have returned to their old thieving ways,
kidnapping the moors, keeping them captive for days.
The tops have been exchanged for a thick damp haze
which shrouds out everything but close, cold greys.
Mists are lauded by romantics for their air of mystery
but their weeping, creeping gloom forces me into retreat.
I flick every switch to flood my world with light,
hoping for bluer skies tomorrow, or even frost’s first bite.
Mischievous murk, please return my upward view,
I want to look to the hills rather than only seeing you.
Lift! Leave! Evaporate! Unhang your encroaching cloud!
Let the sunshine in again. Please. Soon. Somehow.

22 October - Season of mists...

21 October – Apple picking

Standing on tiptoe to reach, twist and pluck
fresh from the tree gives you quite a rush.
Better than posh piles stacked high in supermarket aisles,
one imperfect apple picked yourself is superior by miles.
Feeling the rounded weight in your lucky hand
next to the tree that gave it helps you understand
the worth of what you hold, and the time it took to grow;
a brand new revelation of what you already know.
Surveying your bounty now, you recognise it as treasure,
magnifying the joy of juicy, crunching pleasure.
Visit an orchard if you can, meet different varieties,
their names will entrance you with their possibilities.
The Russet tastes like pear, the Sunset’s sweet as pie,
put Blenheim Oranges in crumbles to serve up Autumn highs.
Gather them all in October before it is too late,
if there’s too many to eat, it’s the perfect excuse to bake!
But don’t forget the wonder of seeing them on the tree,
grasping them one by one, savouring the moment deliciously.

20 October – Neighbourhood hooligans

I didn’t see who did it
but I’m on to their kind,
though they won’t really care
just how much I mind
them covering my wood stain
with their foul graffiti,
spoiling my fresh paint job
so utterly brazenly.
Hours of work invested
to make the wood shed smart,
now they’ve sprayed it with their filth,
have they absolutely no heart?
What’s the point of scrubbing it clean
when I know they will return,
after all, I put it in their space,
when will I ever learn?
How are they supposed to know
what is tree and what is not?
And if they could tell the difference,
why would they give a diddly squat?
So let this be a lesson
to me and to you,
you can call it ‘garden furniture’
but they’ll still name it ‘loo’!

19 October – Murmuration

Starlings suspended in air,
whispering silent conversation,
miming complex charades of shapes
in ebbing, flowing synchronisation.
A shimmering shoal of black
rippling with tides of turning wing,
a seamless fabric floating dance,
an almost mystical thing.
I long to join the swarm,
to warp and weft with feather in flight,
to harness the power of wind
to be in the swell, at one with the might;
to swirl in a soup of bird,
a temporary twister let loose in the clouds,
to help cover the tops and fields
with extraordinarily beautiful shrouds.
But it’s enough to stand below
and drink in the awe-inspiring sensation
of marvelling at the mirages
of a shifting murmuration.

19 October - Murmuration

18 October – Hotel of horrors

I thought the results would be predictable
when I decided to be more hospitable
to creatures exhausted by flying and creeping;
any minibeast looking for a safe place to sleep in.
I established my bug hotel resort with pride,
congratulating myself on protecting those inside;
a five star shelter offering only the best,
a luxury holiday, a first class nest.
(I’d followed the experts’ advice to the letter,
it would be hard to build anything better.)
So imagine my shock when instead of offering rehab,
I found I’d unwittingly created a deadly trap.
What I had designed as retreat accommodation
was commandeered by blue tits seeking feeding stations!
All those sleepy residents, enjoying comfort and style
had been lamentably lured into somewhere horribly hostile.
It just goes to show when you get involved with nature,
you’re not always in control, and that is the danger!

17 October – Stowaway

Way to go!
Ride the flow,
see how far you float.
Perhaps you’ll see
the vast North Sea,
little leaf-fall boat.
What a thrill ride,
surfing wild tides –
sailing made extreme.
But first you need
to balance speed
with staying above stream.
Down the Nidd now,
show the Ouse how,
make it all the way.
Do a number
on the Humber,
conquer the leaf boat race.
Be a winner,
little skimmer,
play the game and thrive.
Stay right on course,
jet ski the force,
just remember, do not dive!

17 October - Stowaway

16 October – Mottled metaphors

Not every Autumn leaf heralds colour and beauty
worthy of serenading in song and poetry.
Some take on more sinister complexions,
inspiring singularly ominous connections.
Hostas are case in point, snakes in the grass,
mottled scaly skin urging you to walk fast
lest they grow into motion and slither after you,
yes, hurry on past hostas, whatever you do.

16 October - Mottled metaphors

15 October – Left behind

Why are you still here, October Swallow?
Your swoop is long gone, how can you follow?
Will you try to navigate the currents alone?
When did you discover you were all on your own?
Were you caught sleeping while the others stole away?
Are you pathologically late, or are you just afraid?
Is this your first winter? Have you flown the route before?
Have you any premonition of what is in store?
I see the panic in your flight as you search the empty skies
for any other travellers accidentally left behind.
Two weeks ago I wished all the swallows had remained,
but now I find I’m wishing you were far, far away.
I’m willing you to beat impossible odds triumphantly,
to fly six thousand miles alone, to arrive miraculously.
I don’t know if you can get there, but I’ll hope with all my heart
that you’ll make it to Africa if you’re brave enough to start.

15 October - Left behind

14 October – Golden birch

This silver birch
requests a new valuation,
an upgrade,
a higher price,
a re-estimation.
Yes its trunk is silver
but its leaves are shining gold,
its two-tone
precious metal
is making it feel bold.
This championing fan
thinks it should have its way,
a re-appraisal,
a neo-naming
to commemorate its Autumn blaze.

13 October – Angry AGM

The clamour is circling,
parliament begins
with dissonant debating
in a loud cawing din.
No ‘order!’ caller,
no mask of civility,
every claw is out
in a rook committee.
“Where should we roost?”
“What should we eat?”
“If we can’t agree on anything,
why do we meet?”
Who is in charge?
Nobody knows.
On and on they squawk,
round and round they go.
At least that’s how it seems
from down on the ground,
but perhaps I’m misinterpreting
their murderous sound.
Maybe they are experts
in clear communication,
perhaps they should contribute
to governing the nation!

12 October – Free falling

I will stand under the beech tree
as the west wind blows
and dance among its whirling, twirling gold leaf snow.
I will gaze up at its burnished clouds
that scatter gilded birds
and let myself rest from trying to find the perfect words
to capture, to conjure, to hold the moment tight,
to pin it to paper before it’s lost to time’s wild flight.
I will stand under the beech tree
as the west wind blows
and spin and laugh, rejoicing in its rustling, radiant glow.

11 October – Unidentical twins

Stand off on the path
as brothers choose sides,
face down each other
and fiercely divide.

“Vive la revolution!
I stand for change,
I wear the colours
of a brand new age.”

“I believe the old ways
were built to last,
I stand for prizing
the wisdom of the past.”

Who is going to win
the sycamore civil war?
Deja vu tells me
we’ve been here before.

The new will sway the old
when prevailing winds change,
but red’s season won’t last,
green will come to power again.

The battle will continue,
regimes cycle round,
a final lasting truce
can never be found.

10 October – Crowded out

If you want to walk in Grassington you need to get up with the lark
to be totally sure to guarantee there’ll be enough space to park.
Although it’s not always cars of walkers that fill up every space,
but large gangs of sheep who think they own the whole place.
Good luck finding room if they’ve come out in force,
they’re utterly prepared to stop you seeing Linton Falls.
They don’t believe in Welcome to Yorkshire’s open philosophy,
it’s your departing they are marketing as their top priority!
But if you squeeze in somehow and finally get your break,
at least they won’t block your way to finding tea and cake.

10 October - Crowded out

9 October – Rooting

I have put my roots down here,
but they are new and shallow
next to yours.
Mighty Oak,
how many of my lifetimes
have you lived here
watching settlers walk past,
towering over the bankside path
as it erodes towards you?
I am impressed, yes – with half the world –
by your staggering height,
your broad shoulders
and wide sheltering arms
that seem to carry the sky.
But your roots captivate me most,
exposed by the water to reveal their true power.
Fingers of weaving strength sifting,
moving the earth,
grasping huge boulders,
twisting, turning,
steadying the ground
as much as yourself.
Teach me how to root like you,
to spread my palms wide in this soil,
coil myself back around the real;
and have and hold my belonging
here, on actual ground.

8 October – Sunset elegy

Little, lost, lonely sun,
where has all your lustre gone?
All your shine’s shone out and fallen,
every charred quartz treasure stolen.
Dazzling show reduced to husk,
lights turned off, day made dusk.
Do you remember when your bright head beamed
spotlights of shade across the ground beneath?
Do you mourn all you used to be,
towering tall and blazing free?
Little, lost, lonely sun,
don’t despair, you are not done.
You will rise again – at least a thousand fold –
dawning brand new stars of beautiful, burning gold.

7 October – Secret flower power

I’m only now waking to the secret power
of the completely ignorable ivy flower.
Who could imagine its strange ball ended stems
would prove so irresistible to our buzzing friends?
But its hedgerow wands are swarming with bees and wasps,
sleepily downing pints, then making sudden stark drops.
This is the last chance saloon for dosing up on nectar
before gracefully retiring from public life for winter.
So be careful when you go walking down ivy woven lanes
and you hear the soft humming of gentle refrains;
respect the spell of binding growth that draws each insect in
and marvel at mysterious blooms bewitching flying kin.

6 October – Leaf art

Flames dancing the hillside,
polished stained glass trees,
wild abstract paintings
strewn on pavement’s sheen.
Deep perpetual sunsets
setting on ground and growth,
greenery wearing giant gems
and bold designer clothes.
Bright constellations
of hanging sycamore stars,
fallen red dwarf suns
lying under ruby scars.
All in one small corner
of October’s gallery,
a dazzling show of leaf art
in just one stretch of street.

5 October – Neighbourhood watch

One of the best perks of living in the English countryside
is the more unusual chances for pet care that so often arrive.
Each year, early in October, we chicken-sit next door’s hens,
releasing them, then chasing them back into their pen.
They waddle and squabble like living parodies,
but there’s nothing like warm, fresh-hatched eggs for free.
The house across the road is still up for sale,
I really want our new neighbours to have animals as well.
I saw a girl in jodhpurs looking round positively,
I’m hoping horse-sitting is on the horizon for me!

4 October – Wrapping up

The first day to bite carries a sting from the north
but the dog needs walking, so we must go forth.
Here comes the challenge of British inclement weather,
the wrapping up in endless layers that seems to take forever.
But here comes the joy too of thick woollen clothes,
of unearthing your favourite gloves, and pulling your snood over your nose.
Here comes the cosy, the comfort and the cuddling,
so hug the cold wind close, for without it there’s no huddling.

3 October – Empty skies

I know there are other birds
still painting our broad, bright skies,
but I can’t help seeing emptiness
when the swallows have said their goodbyes.
I know there are other Springs
that will bring them back to me,
but I can’t help feeling bereft
every time they take their leave.
I know there are other people
longing for their arriving,
but I wish I could keep them near
while ensuring Winter thriving.
I know it must be a lure,
visiting multiple nations,
but I wish they’d give up their tours
and consider a nice long staycation.
I know they deserve acclaim
for flying six thousand miles,
but I’d be much more impressed
if they’d just not go, once in a while.
I know they need African sun
to warm their artistic wings,
but still, I lament their loss
as Autumn’s most painful thing.

3 October - Empty skies

2 October – An unlikely club

It’s customary to see clubs of birds perching on a telegraph wire,
but not ones including a predator among objects of its own desire.
That’s why we didn’t so much look, as openly stand and gawk
when a charm of goldfinches sat comfortably – next to a sparrowhawk!
What on earth possessed them all to court danger so brazenly;
to nestle next to a creature who would regard them as its tea?
I know there’s strength in numbers, but did they do it for a dare;
goading each other on to seek thrills by precariously staying there?
Hearts in mouths, we watched them, waiting for one to call chicken and flee,
but they all remained there resolute, standing their ground recklessly.
Thankfully they did react when their neighbour took ominous flight,
bouncing away delightedly without suffering a single bite!

1 October – The light seekers

Did you ever see the wonder of light painting plants before your eyes,
like an escapee science experiment in the laboratory of the wild?
In primary school we shut beans in the dark to see what they would do,
and were amazed to watch the staggering heights to which they desperately grew
to find the light they needed to transform white into thriving green,
to look again like the healthy shoots we’d previously always seen.
This year, inspired by the neighbours, I bought Autumn crocus bulbs,
and we’re watching the sun paint them purple as their light-seeking petals unfold.
Tucked away in their paper bag, they had already started to flower,
but were pure delicate white before feeling the sun’s magic pen power.
Now I’m reminded of this colour play, I look for it all around
and find creeping veins pumping green into shrubs on shaded ground.
But I have to rest my brain after thinking so hard about the biology
that conjures such incredible shifts with a touch of illuminosity.

30 September – The gall of it

Which wasp larvae have had the gall
to irritate this wild rose into growing a ball
of frantic, frenetic feathered growth? –
a beautiful, living, practical joke.
For the last laugh is on any bush or tree
whose defence can be used symbiotically
to create such a perfect nesting place
for a new swarm’s cosy nursery space.

29 September – Autumn devotee

If I could, I’d spend all of Autumn’s precious days
chasing the changing up the country’s motorways.
I’d drink deep colour all the way from coast to coast,
moving on before it faded to brown so I could boast
the biggest dose of blazing leaves one person ever saw,
a greater drenching in acorn rain than anyone had before.
I would gather vast bouquets of perfect poppy heads
and make giant installations of all the beautiful living dead.
I would feast on fruit from every corner of the isle
and stir great batches of sticky jam all the while.
I would absorb the abundance, immersed in every vivid sensation
till there was no time left for that feeling of consternation
that creeps and persists as the grey also builds,
and paints a counterpoint of gloom to all that glorious gild.
This is how I’d choose to celebrate all that Autumn has to give
and rise above the dampening bleak to truly, fully live.

28 September – House guest

A butterfly in the house is a strangely magical thing,
like a fairy painting over ordinary with whimsical wings.
All that fluttering motion against the stasis of four walls
whispers to the freedom deep within that eagerly calls
back to childhood, to wonder, and to lingering play,
to chasing fleeting colours on bright Summers’ days.
I seek to guide them out, though their leaving is loss,
but today’s snoozy Tortoiseshell won’t accept me as boss.
It’s determined to move in for winter’s full duration,
folding up its wings to suspend in hibernation.
We’ve coaxed it from the stairs and the shelves in the hall
but it won’t budge from the conservatory roof at all.
No matter, now it’s safe, it’s very welcome to stay
where the heating can’t confuse it that it might be May.
It’s a very special guest I’m delighted we can keep –
a still-winged sprite taking an enchanted beauty sleep.

27 September – Out of season

Raspberries and crocuses growing in September
cause Autumn to pause, and us to remember
Spring and Summer as if they were still here
with lost colours, tastes and warmth suddenly brought back near.
This is the gorgeous, irresistible reason
for growing varieties that feel out of season.
For what could be more fun than time travel plants
that whisk you back and forth as the year departs?

26 September – Downpipe drama

The downpipe was emanating a strange fluttering sound,
so we gingerly took it apart to see what would be found.
We expected a butterfly who’d somehow lost its way
rather than a coal tit turned miner, tunnelling for the day.
What possessed it to dive down our gutter’s water slide,
it was, of course, utterly unable to confide.
We set it, bedraggled and dazed, to dry out in the sun
and trust it fully recovered, for later it was gone.
The very next Thursday, while drinking our morning tea,
what should we chance to look out the window and see
but a coal tit perched on the buddleia in the pouring rain…
I’m hoping, if it’s the same one, it won’t get drenched again!

26 September - Downpipe drama

25 September – Daylight robbery

The first leaves to fly
are pilfered not fallen,
as a moody Friday wind
gustily breaks their fragile hold
and seizes them for itself.
Tossed up as well as down,
they flicker and wheel
like drunken sailor butterflies
at the mercy of contradicting currents
overwhelming their tiny wings.
I witness the crime,
caught in a snow globe
of stolen tree confetti
while the gasping, grasping gale
thieves my breath too,
and blows it who knows where.

24 September – The tiptoe tree

Down where the river swells wide
and greedily licks the bank
in premonition and echo of flood,
a brave alder stands resolute tall.
A persistent survivor
of constant colonising land grabs,
it clings to its diminishing earth,
rising on tiptoe to straddle the fleeing ground
and remain balanced,
poised and elegant above the fray.
I think of a ballerina’s strength
ascending en pointe,
and applaud the beautiful struggle
of the alder’s stoic dance.

23 September – Uninvited sun

I wonder which bird it was that dropped their tea
in the terracotta pot under the viburnum tree?
For we certainly didn’t plant a sunflower seed,
and although of course I wouldn’t say it was a weed,
one is flowering uninvited all the same.
But as drizzle sets in, and our remaining blooms fade,
it’s fabulous to find a brand new sun displayed,
so we welcome it gladly though it shines out of place,
a beautiful surprise; an unexpected grace.

22 September – Woodland tricks

There’s something about woodland
that weaves tall tales from thin air,
then embroiders them
with thick undergrowth and dappled shade.
Life and story blur and meld
into something both and neither
as the impossible trespasses into truth.
Here, everything is close to being something else,
shifting shape or casting shadow
to wear imagination’s form as its own.
Today, there’s a fallen branch
emerging from the leaf mulch
with a face so suggestive of snake
that I hurry past its slithering
before it can follow me home.

21 September – River tree

Low light polishes the river to mirror shine,
projecting flying ripples on to the overhang
to dance along its branches like water flames
licking the wood with dappling burn,
until it becomes a web of suspended tributaries
rather than a solid, rooted, growing mass.
I stop to enter the illusion,
embrace still set elevated to cinematic motion
as light pulls its playful tricks
and quasi-consumes the river tree
with liquid luminescence.

20 September – Landing strip

We didn’t know we were on a flight path,
circling the reservoir at Thruscross
and chatting away the afternoon.
Our attention was on the water,
where four Canada geese swam straight lines,
transferring from the air their flair for formation
to float in ordered elegance below.
Then suddenly,
flying low over the sharp rise of the moor,
a whole skein descend in sequence
with jet skiing finesse
while we look up in awe as if at a festival
where the Red Arrows are performing a stunt.
I marvel at how close they come,
their undercarriages shining bright white,
as they dip just over our heads
and alight with perfect precision
on their glistening, rippling landing strip.

20 September - Landing strip

19 September – Surprise trekkers

Some weekends when walking up Nidderdale’s gravel tracks,
you see surprising characters out trekking in little packs.
They’re singularly uninhibited and often directly stare,
as if it were you that was a novelty to discover tramping there.
Sometimes they stop to snack on unsuspecting wayside trees,
eating with their mouths wide open despite being in company.
If they do decide to smile at you, it’s a very toothy display
but it brightens up the morning to meet llamas on your way!

18 September – Ghost flowers

Departed but not gone,
ghost flowers linger on,
echoing blooming tall
despite the fade and fall
of colour, petal and seed.
This is an Autumn tragedy,
glory reduced to parody,
as brown stems still stand proud,
bereft of rainbows shining loud,
all their lustre lost to the wind.
But still I remember their names,
see them and greet them the same,
for even when shrivelled and dry,
they proclaim their histories gone by
and promise resurrection return.

18 September - Ghost flowers 1

16 September – Elusive neighbours

If you want to see wild deer
leaping the walls, bounding the fields,
you need to be up when it’s still dark
and chase the seclusion sunrise yields.
You can’t control their sightings,
can’t predict when they might appear,
but early in the morning
is when I’ve always found them here.
Watchful gazes fix on you,
then white bobtails glide their retreat,
caught in magical gladed moments,
disappearing in rustles of leaves.

15 September – True colours

Everywhere around us, with new shades appearing each day,
the trees are gradually revealing their true colours again.
I used to believe Autumn’s turning was all about decay
until I learned the dying green is really being drawn away.
How strange these pigments flaming new were really always here,
covered by chlorophyll’s mastery till they all but disappeared.
It’s only when strength retreats that hidden hues can shine,
weakness revealing burning beauty, fragile but sublime.

15 September - True colours

14 September – Picnic crashers

In my defence, the wind started it –
stealing a piece of popcorn
out of my unsuspecting hand
and hurling it onto the path.
An explosive act
detonating a debris of gulls
as eye after eye sizes up
our bench as the main chance.
A black headed battalion lines up,
swaggering and cawing
like a gang of drunken louts
lowering the tone of the park.
I am led astray,
courting their absurd strutting
by scattering more provocation
to keep them keen and close.
My cackles grow louder than theirs,
and that and the swooping flapping
leads you to plead for mercy
to finish your sandwich in peace.
But I am hooked on hilarity
and continue my mischief
all the way through lunch,
much to the delight of our uninvited guests.

13 September – Chasing rainbows

All is murk, mizzle and gust
but glinting among the drear rain dust,
a perfect arc of colour suspends.
And though it’s a bleary morning,
I feel tinted promise dawning,
long to pass under it into more.
But as I advance it retreats
then swiftly dissolves and depletes,
leaving only dampened desire behind.
Then just as I fear all is rain,
stripes of light re-appear again
just a little way on, up the valley.
I would rather chase rainbows all day
than accept the world as painted grey,
so I walk on to the next arching hope.

12 September – Miracle aviator

It is common to praise the ariel displays
of swallows, kestrels and kites
as they paint the sky in beauty
with their dances, hovers and glides.
But today my sights are lower,
much closer to the ground,
where the weightier wood pigeon
is so often to be found.
Here is a true miracle of fantastic feathered flight
as frantic wings whistle and flap with all their might.
Somehow the pigeon is conquering the air,
even though the odds seem staggeringly unfair.
The din overhead carries hints of impending dread,
it always seems each one might just crash land instead!
The effort it takes just to clear the garden gate
suggests they were designed for a walking fate,
yet with ideas wildly above their station,
they’re trying their best at amateur aviation.
But watch them when they’re distant and high,
using momentum’s speed to fall,
and you’ll realise extreme descent
is their true airborne call.
Seeing them soundlessly ride
the downward current’s flow,
suddenly they look born to fly,
elegant and graceful from far below.

12 September - Miracle aviator

11 September – Saltburn

The schools are back,
leaving beauty spots free
so we drive to the coast
for seaside therapy.
Black sand marbles golden
in abstract, flowing shapes
and the currents within me shift
with the push and pull of the waves.
A sand piper plays for laughs,
scuttling absurd little shows
while I delight to reunite
the beach with my shoe-freed toes.
The gulls cry a perfect soundtrack
as I breathe deep salty bliss,
feeling my inner oceans calm
while sea and shore gently kiss.

10 September – In my hand

In my hand I hold a maybe future tree,
a perhaps full forest of oaken possibility.
All contained in the potential of a tiny acorn,
dappled dreams and towering shade waiting to be born.
This one is alone among thousands of fragmented shards
that the leaping woodland warriors saw fit to discard,
having eaten their fill and scurried on to find more,
reducing rooting prospects on the earthen floor.
I gently drop my green survivor back, and hope it will one day grow
to wave tomorrow’s broad branches over me as I return to walk below.

9 September – Seed magic

In the season of seed it seems right to write a verse
on the five magic ways seeds use to disperse…
the first way they scatter is through gravity’s pull,
the second is through birds and critters eating till full.
The most dramatic way is when they explode by force,
but drifting on the wind also works well of course.
Lastly some use water and it’s transporting flow:
and that, my friend, is the five ways they go.

8 September – Peaking too soon

If I were a goosander
living the river dream,
I would fly to beat the current
then land and drift downstream.
But I’d never be as happy
as in my younger days
when I’d snoozily drifted
safe above the babbling waves,
nestled on my mother’s back
gliding great distance effortlessly,
experiencing the high life
with no work required from me.
I think after that beginning
even flying might seem a chore,
while doing my own swimming
would be a total bore!

7 September – Autumn art

Whenever the waysides fill with seed heads and teasels,
I half expect to come across paint pots and easels,
so strong is their connection to lessons in art
and a succession of teachers trying to impart
the beautiful way they display texture and shape,
the perfect still life subjects their arrangements make.
The hours went slow trying to echo them on paper,
and I spent most of the time talking to my neighbour.
I still can’t capture Autumn’s emblems in charcoaled lines
but I have learned to recognise them as treasured finds.
I bring them indoors and group their stems in jars with flair,
enjoying their finery now, and remembering then and there.

6 September – Evening fly-by

Disturbing the peace,
at first they’re heard not seen,
like the dissonant honking
of competing car horns
caught in angry confrontation
somewhere in the next village.
And then they fall quiet overhead,
their swift soaring image
conflicting with their previous sound,
a graceful ticking yes in the sky,
flying in perfect formation
as if unity and close co-ordination
were the only things on their minds.
The perfect team, using the air
and its slip streams to common purpose,
they sweep on in silent, consistent shape.
But once out of sight, synchronised motion
is replaced again by cacophonous commotion,
and I can’t help thinking, despite every analogy,
that the goose at the back is protesting the route.

6 September – Evening fly-by

5 September – Early morning stop out

It’s way too light in the early morning
to expect to find a bat gently snoring,
but sure enough from the edge of the green pot,
one is hanging fast asleep as if it forgot
to follow its colony to more private climes,
where all is shadowed and safe from daylight shine.
We get close enough to marvel at tiny feet holding firm
with so much more weight hanging down under them.
We wonder if our bat will sleep till night’s cover returns
but it wakes, stretches, scratches and quickly learns
that it isn’t quite where it would like to nap all day,
so it takes off during breakfast, and flies fast away.

4 September – Friday foraging

We find a delicious recipe for hedgerow cake,
which we cannot resist trying to make.
So we climb the hills and scour the wayside for brambles,
getting stung, scratched and temporarily entangled
with the bushes that bear the confection we need
to make the wild concoction we long to eat.
And even though my hands are scarred and raw,
tinged with purple that wasn’t there before,
it was worth all the effort and the prickling thorns
to slowly forage for a beautiful black store,
and to enjoy the slowing, calming sensation
of picking the ingredients for a new creation.
We return laden with piles of juicy loot,
mix the sweet batter, then add our fruit,
and when it’s all baked, iced and served
it feels so satisfyingly well deserved…
but shhh, we picked enough to make more
with nothing like the work it took before.
And I suspect I’ll still enjoy the next one immensely,
even without picking one single blackberry!

4 September - Friday foraging

3 September – Second new year

The first mornings of September feel just like that,
with clear blue skies, low golden light,
and crisp air that smells of fresh beginnings,
carrying with it the always remembered expectation
of brand new exercise books and shiny, sharpened pencils.
The dew is so heavy it glimmers like frost
and even though it’s decades since my terms began,
I still feel I must be back to school soon.
Focus and purpose pervade the day,
the chilling air forcing a final goodbye to summer,
and a growing acceptance that as the students return,
so the swallows must leave again too.

2 September – First Discovery

The first Discovery was crisp and sweet,
a tangy, tasty orchard-plucked treat.
I eye the rest of the pile with tingling tongue,
apple season has only just begun.
Fruit bowl, fridge, cupboard and table
we’ll find as much space as we’re able
to fill with stocks of ripened fare
to feast on, freeze, stew and share.
But for now, even in this first crunch’s savour,
it’s all here distilled – pure September flavour.

1 September – Lighting the fire

I’m still watching for the green to turn,
but warm Autumn colours already burn
in the shimmering flames of the first fire
to cosy the house since last winter.
Outside the blaze hasn’t reached the woods
and there’s no golden glamour to compensate
for the gusting cold and greying skies
that steal sunshine memories as summer dies.
But here inside, all is promise and premonition,
as wild dancing colour draws us in and on
to picture titian trees and hear crunching leaves,
anticipating frosts and firework bursts
by blazing bonfires, holding mulled wine in thick-gloved hands.
So much of the coming season is felt now,
prefigured in this first amber shining,
as we sit in the living room glow and wait
for the world to bronze beyond the grate.

31 August – Wild wood wander

Old Spring Wood seemed quiet,
still and empty of all life
but the trees
and me
walking under them
in peace.
No bird song or greetings
from people or dogs,
just the trees
and me
walking under them
at ease.
When suddenly, like electricity vibrating in the air
I’m surrounded by loud thrumming all around, everywhere.
The source? Invisible though I look in every direction.
The result? An incomparably unnerving sensation.
If I didn’t know better I’d suspect some kind of haunting,
but the reality is actually almost as daunting.
There must be thousands of them above me, wasps or bees,
hidden swarms gathering en masse in the canopy of trees.
I speed up my pace, feeling considerably on edge
till I’m out through the gate and past the boundary hedge.
Pleased to be back on to safer, silent ground,
I walk on in relief, trying to process what I found.
But the next time I return
to brave Old Spring Wood,
all is calm and tranquil,
sounding vacant as it should.

30 August – Nasturtium nursery

Four cabbage white babies crawl in a line,
eating the mattress on which they also lie,
while another in its adult shape flutters near to me
and I hope to myself that they don’t completely eat
the lily pads and flowers I was counting on for lunch,
after all, they’re not the only ones who like to munch
on peppery salad leaves and bright orange blooms,
so I hope they move on from my nasturtiums soon!

28 August – Turning seasons

The leaves are still green
but the signs are everywhere,
from the crisping air of morning
to countless seeds in the dog’s hair!
Summer’s handing over,
ticking off her final tasks,
while Autumn is impatient
to begin making his mark.
The lights will change soon
to sheen the world amber red,
the gorgeous green of summer
retiring to her bed.
But the wheel keeps turning
and what is lost will be found
as the seasons shift and shimmer
and the last comes back around.

28 August - Turning seasons

27 August – Drying out

Wings too wet and heavy to flit away,
a peacock butterfly spends half the day
sunbathing its splendour on the garage wall
until it’s confident it will flutter, not fall.
Then with a flourish it rises high
dry enough to fly enough to reach the sky.
I miss it gently fanning its beautiful wings
but receive a new gift when the song thrush sings.

27 August - Drying out

26 August – Chasing purple

The news is in, the heather’s out
so we drive to the tops to see
the fresh made purple hill-waves
of the deep, wide moorland sea.
Vast expanses painted in flower
stretch blooms to the edge of sight,
entrancing even those familiar
with this annual summer delight.
I try to hold it in memory,
dales dyed their best for the country shows,
but can’t recapture top of the world splendour
once I’m back in the valley below.
I wish it would last forever
but then it wouldn’t be the same,
I couldn’t chase its beauty
in a yearly fleeting game.
So I’ll just cherish this moment,
breathe deep the brief lilac haze,
and console myself when it goes over,
it will return again to re-amaze.

25 August – Butterfly dream

I’m sure, like me, you’ve had those days when you wish you could be,
someone or something else different from yourself entirely:
to fly and soar on the wind as a bird free and high,
to be your carefree dog as he sleeps by the fireside.
But I must confess to feeling more than a little surprised
by the metamorphosis-seeking Cabbage White that I spied
clinging with wings closed green to a tall vegetable stem,
as if what it perceived to be the envy of all men
was becoming a corn on the cob!
For twenty four hours it paused there quite still,
but all the wishing in the world could not fulfil
its desire to experience another’s life for a day,
so it gave up, ascended, and fluttered away.

24 August – Passed over

It must be hard to be a mint’s flower, constantly overlooked
when its leaves are eagerly sought out and celebrated in recipe books.
For centuries the herb’s been picked to soothe, freshen and flavour,
while its blossom has remained passed over and out of favour.
It’s hard when no one appreciates just how prettily you bloom,
even if they’re always thankful for their infinite uses for you!
So when you sauce your lamb, brush your teeth or drink mint tea,
remember the beautiful petals that ensured there was more seed.

23 August – After the rain

After the rain,
the ground is soaked
with rose confetti
and fallen fuchsia bells.
Heavy rudbeckia heads
half collapse themselves down
like folded umbrellas,
still dripping wet.
And the garden
smells of spice
as moisture polishes
the curry leaves
to sing their flavour
through the air
so deliciously
you can almost taste it,
after the rain.

22 August – Biscuit blooms

I saw the strangest bush when walking along the track,
its blooms looking for all the world like an opened pack
of those retro snowball biscuits that came in pink and white,
transporting me back to Eighties childhood treat delights.
I ask myself what other deja vu flowers I might find? –
midget gems and party rings dancing through my mind…

21 August – Friday night film set

The evenings are chillier now,
dusk creeping into night
in front of us
long before it’s time for bed,
so we retreat to the sofa
to watch whodunnits
on the TV
rather than sitting outside instead.
I am gripped by the murder plot
but just as hooked on
a second screen –
the window to outside’s darkening activity
where, drawn to the light
of flickering flames
from our candles,
two darting bats weave their own mystery.
The house in the film is turreted
and there is an unusual
blending of worlds,
as if the garden here is becoming there,
and the night winged creatures
painting black on midnight blue
so close to us
might actually be an imagined, storied pair.

20 August – Honeysuckle hope

This is the first year I’ve looked around carefully enough to see,
after honeysuckle finishes flowering come bursts of bright rubies.
Fragrance fades, petals fall, but shining in their stead,
clusters of radiant berries adorn it with new found brilliant red.
It’s a simple, obvious picture, but no less hopeful, profound and true,
when what you’re known for fades, unexpected fruit still comes from you.
So trust in the turning season, trust even as blooms spoil and spill,
without the loss of what is, tomorrow’s promise cannot be fulfilled.

19 August – Surprise bouquets

Down in the garden, in the raised veg beds,
some unexpected blooms are raising their heads.
A florist would look blank if you asked for them there
– in fact that would be quite a fun little dare!
But trust me, they’re beautiful despite their progeny,
these new Charlotte blossoms, shining fine for me.
Paper white petals with a yellow trumpet heart,
perhaps it’s time potato flowers got to play their part
in the bouquets we choose, arrange and display,
why disqualify them because of their humble name?!

18 August – The blue tit files

Every evening when the light begins to dim,
the sun is dipping and the blackbird sings,
one after another, a troop of sleepy blue tits come,
filing themselves under the fascia board, one by one.
How they slot in such a tiny space I never will know,
but I love to sit and watch them as they go
to rest their weary feathers, already lost in reverie
while the blackbird sings lullabies from the sycamore tree.

18 August - The blue tit files

17 August – Butterfly hypnosis

Mesmerised, in a Monday morning trance
at the whizzing, spinning butterflies’ dance.
Courting conducted at a dizzying speed,
gyroscoping with fluttering ease,
tumbling, rolling over and over,
high above, now down near the clover,
a two spoked Catherine wheel sparkling bright,
flickering, shimmering gymnasts of light.
I must walk on and begin my day
but I take to heart their sense of play.

16 August – Daisy joy

Daisies, daisies, give me your answer do,
why can’t I ever walk past
without stopping to smile at you?
I think it’s those summer lunchtimes
sat out on the long school grass,
picking petals to predict romance,
so happy not to be in class.
Stringing your stems in garlands
round ankles, wrists and necks,
of course that’s why, years later,
I never can forget
the feel of cheer and charm
as you scatter your smiles at me,
even when I’m walking at speed
and seemingly far too busy
to stop and sit and play again
at lovelorn games and daisy chains.

15 August – Hula girls

The wrens in my garden are tiny hula girls
who hop into the Fuchsia and set it all a whirl
with quivering and jiggling as they hunt among its leaves,
unaware of their performance as they retrieve
bugs for their breakfast, for lunch and for tea,
an accidental dinner show at nine, twelve and three!

14 August – Garden strays

Landscape, habitat, historic local fauna and flora
are all interrupted by escapee garden explorers.
It’s important to strive for balanced biodiversity
but I can’t help the childish rush of delight when I see
a burst of exotic dragon heads painting the hedgerow red
when really there should only be brambles there instead.
Against the grey of dry stone wall
and the constant green of field, fell and all
there is something gleeful that always transpires
when I see such vivid blooms of crimson fire
– be it legitimate joy or half guilty pleasure –
I still believe I’m finding wayside treasure.

13 August – Ode to sparrows

This song’s for the sparrows,
perennially underestimated jewels
who dart and dive and flap and squawk,
under incomprehensible mob rules.
Daredevil kamikazes almost brushing the hairs on your head,
little gutter acrobats drinking up rain and scavenging for bread.
Disruptors of ordered vegetable beds, with a taste for bathing in soil,
who use the potting shed’s asphalt roof to exfoliate tummy and tail.
Shakers of Viburnum branches, huge gatherings full of clamour,
making up with plenty of drama for all they lack in glamour.
Balancing on bamboo pole ends, on top of the bean teepee,
extreme perchers excelling at what looks impossible to me.
Why are they so dismissed, barely given a second look,
when their characterful shenanigans deserve a story book?
Perhaps it’s time to make them heroes of a famous tale or two,
or at the least to underline they’re well worth bird watching too.

12 August – Songbird apprentice

I will sit at the foot of the old ash tree
and open my heart to the sound
of the Song Thrush weaving its melody –
sweet, lilting and loud.
Each year that passes, I will hope to hear
how it lengthens its narrative of notes,
telling new tales of winter survived,
stretching cadences like long summer days.
Perhaps I too will learn his craft,
building my stories year by year.
Perhaps I too will find fresh notes
for others to sit and hear.

11 August – Welcome?

When you lay out your welcome mat
and fling your back door wide,
be careful because you might not know
quite who you’re inviting inside!
Some guests will hop into the kitchen,
confused about where to feed fledglings,
others will fly all through the house
on wildly misdirected wings.
Then a cricket might just sit boldly
on your actual welcome mat,
leaving you protesting,
“I didn’t mean quite that!”.

10 August – Blackberry promise

When summer’s in its swan song
and August’s long begun,
a strange melancholy can beckon
with the end of holiday fun.
That’s when you need reminding
Autumn brings her own bliss,
look to the hedgerows dear one,
there’s something you shouldn’t miss.
Search for the delicate white,
find the first black beads to bite,
savour the sweet tanged delight,
let flavour win your internal fight.
Believe the promise of more that’s coming,
welcome the herald of colour and fruit,
soon trees, not just brambles, will be laden
with delicious new beauty to salute.

9 August – A glad song

I was just so glad
when the first gladioli
grew their stems
full straight and high
and broadcast their blooms
in beautiful hues
making perfect
the present-bulbs I gave to you.

And it makes me so glad
that this wonder is real,
you bury a knobbly gift
and trust its promise fulfils.
Weeks and months pass,
then when you’ve half forgotten
colour unfolds fountains
and shines surprise gems.

8 August – The night watch

I always imagined our view
unlooked at when we sleep.
When we’re not on the terrace
and the doors are all locked,
while the creeping dark
slowly covers the garden
in moonlight quiet
and makes everything
still.
Paused.
Waiting to be reawakened
by opening curtains and doors
and human activity restored.

But I was wrong.

Our view is looked at when we sleep
by those that scuttle and creep and keep
the night watch.

One such creature is covered in spines
and has been spied now as he climbs,
hauling himself slowly up the steps
with splayed flat feet and tiny short legs
to snuffle for grubs and evening snacks,
to enjoy gazing out before turning on his tracks.
Now he descends again,
a slinky on the stairs,
trotting back happily to his own bed,
cosied in under the potting shed.

No, our view is not unlooked at when we sleep,
no doubt many more have managed to keep
their secret, shadowed prowling unseen
while we look away, lost in our dreams –
missing seeing, not just the view,
but the night watch team and all they do.

7 August – Shifting skies

Sitting out late, enjoying the light
and the delicate breeze of approaching night.
The fire pit blazes and up in the skies
a feathery cloud blanket lies.
All feels protected, charmed – at peace,
we listen and look, resting in ease.
Then there among the blue and gold,
the evening shivers in more cold,
and sure enough the blanket shifts
into tiny cloud-seeds that start to drift,
like a dandelion clock blowing on the wind
with time to waste and tales to spin.
And all of this beauty whispers to me,
“time for bed dear heart, time to sleep”.

7 August - Shifting skies

6 August – Buddleia bonanza

Suddenly they’re everywhere
with rocket lollipops bright,
colour and fragrance luring
intoxicated insects to delight.
The bush at the end of the lawn
teems with hustle and bustle,
butterflies, bees and stranged-wingees
all competing for who has the muscle
to down the very best nectar and pollen
before closing time comes
and bloom ends,
and spears bend,
and flowers spend
their last drops of the good stuff all out
and down to the ground.
Even today in the pouring rain,
Buddleia’s open to visitors again.
A bumble bee looking for cover
hangs on upside-down and under;
yesterday’s lollipop fast becoming umbrella –
the perfect shelter from inclement weather.
So if you want to draw a crowd
and do not mind your buzzing loud,
do the tiny world a favour,
plant a stash of their favourite flavour.

5 August – Watched

I open my curtains at six fifty nine
to sixteen jackdaws on the telegraph line.
A group stake out, every eye focused down on me,
staring and cawing intermittently.
Corvid surveillance causes me some unease
so I run downstairs to make the morning teas!

4 August – Don’t just stop to smell the roses

Don’t just stop to smell the roses,
stop to smell it all:
fresh mown grass,
new cut hay,
the tumbling scents
of honeysuckle
and jasmine stars.
Stop to see as well.
Pause your walk to watch
a wagtail’s bobbing dance,
to laugh at sheepish grins,
applaud a strutting stoat
and gasp at kestrel dives.
Stop to touch the lupin’s furry seed pods,
feel for yourself a cleaver’s stick,
and welcome tall bracken tickling your face.
Stroke the horses when their heads
rise and peer over the wall,
stay, talk awhile softly
to each and every creature you meet,
enjoying their wordless replies.
Yes, absolutely stop,
park your car in the lane,
get out and cherish the chance
to remain longer and linger
at the sight of a rare brown hare
running or sitting
beyond the field’s barred gate,
or as a moorland sweeping barn owl
lands on his own pausing post
and locks his piercing eyes with yours.
Stop to listen too,
to hear every birds’ song,
from the sparrow’s chatter
to the blackbird’s virtuosity
and the curlew’s haunting call.
Then look up again
and truly notice
each and every
jewel like bird
that graces a tree
or visits the garden.
And if you hear the kingfisher call
on the winding river path,
just wait,
always wait,
for you might just glimpse
a flash of brilliant flight.
Don’t just stop to smell the roses,
take time to breathe and be
in the woodland, the water
and the wide open spaces
long enough to receive
the wild, unpredictable gifts
of God that grow and roam
and are –
here for you to find.

3 August – Garden mafia

They’re back again
and I know it’s more customary
to sing and serenade
their colours and revelry,
but haven’t you noticed
they’re absolutely in gangs,
mobs of seed spitting,
bird feeder disrupting young lads.
I love them, I do,
they deserve descriptive emotion
but before I can get there
I’m laughing at the commotion.
Finch faces, finch faces
what are you so busy conniving?
Golden but mischievous –
darling bright scoundrels thriving.

3 August - Garden mafia

2 August – Daylight display

The river path is lush now,
growing high verdant green,
and every several steps
fireworks explode between.
Caught mid detonation,
flower-sparks shine,
a dazzling scattering of stars
frozen still in time.
Strange to explain
what I hardly believe,
these breath-taking bursts
are simply called ‘hogweed’.

1 August – White rose day

What else should I serenade on Yorkshire’s day
besides the bright rose, the white rose
that represents her name?
But so many more beauties
come to the fore,
the rivers, the dry-stone walls,
the blustrous, broad-placed moor.
Ten years I have lived here now, under her spell,
and I still can’t find sufficient words to halfway tell
how I love her with her heather, and her ever-changing skies,
how she’s home and half-heaven in my awe struck eyes.
I will walk out my devotion on her coast and up her hills,
each step a caress as I explore and fulfil
my promise to both of us to grow to know her well,
woodland and wildlife, beck, field and fell.

31 July – Interloping leaper

We set off round the reservoir track,
intent on a catch up natter,
suddenly three are joined by a fourth
keen to add more chirrup and chatter.
Little interloping cricket,
be careful where you leap,
we are pleased to meet you
but we have secrets to keep.
Besides this seems a more dangerous route,
you’ll need to watch for every flying boot.
Jump to the left now, back to the grass,
we’ll agree to let your intrusion pass.

30 July – Baby wren

What is smaller than a wren?
A fledgling wren for sure!
I saw for myself by the river,
I’d never met one before.
Like a furious, fluffy pompom,
squawking in the tree,
frantic because its mother
was on the other side of me.
I didn’t want to prolong its panic
so I quickly carried on
but was gladdened by glimpse of small stubby tail
and miniature raucous song.

30 July - Baby wren

29 July – Dog walk dog rose

The wooded track at the end of the village
is steep and narrow to climb,
growing closer still now
as late July bracken towers over
brambles that trip and prick.
The dog tunnels under
and we, like jungle explorers
feel our way through
the dense curtains of foliage
all the way up to the top
to tread the lighter green
of grassy sheep fields,
and see the far, rolling hills.
We reach the farm track
where suddenly, a riot of roses
spill their friendly colour
all over a dry stone wall,
like a chocolate box picture
of Summer hedgerow bliss.
And I smile as I remember
how the struggle to ascend
is always worth it somehow.

29 July - Dog walk dog rose

28 July – Lone Ranger II

We know his game for sure now –
the shy retiring woodland buck,
for we’ve caught him in the act.
We’ve seen him leave
his calm, canopied retreat,
leaping up the track and back
to the fray and fracas
of warren life,
the endless demands of the drove.
I wonder how often he sneaks away,
how long he gets for this downtime,
and if the other rabbits know
his secret shaded peace.

27 July – River soundscape

I wish I could conjure words
to set the song of water,
but no string of sibilant sounds
can capture the constancy
of luscious liquid white noise.
Always by the river,
flow serenades me still,
whether carried in rush,
ripple or fall,
its noise quiets my soul.
It’s the same by the sea,
with the crash and the draw,
Iike a raging lullaby
that storms and soothes
all fear away.

26 July – Olympic digger

The first time I saw a mole
I was beyond surprised,
for they’d been so much bigger
in my childhood mind’s eye.
Pictures didn’t give me scale
and stories evoked a sense
of a creature more a rabbit’s size
than of such diminutive length!
And now the mole has shocked again
with new biographical information,
it turns out to have a super power –
it’s a complete digging sensation!
A full twenty metres each day
they tunnel with tiny searching claws,
just imagine how far you’d get
as a human, if their talent was yours!
Strange to think of them under us,
practically whizzing around,
subterranean superheroes
hiding obscurely underground.

26 July - Olympic digger

25 July – Wind coaster

I watch a kestrel plummet
from soaring high to valley’s depth
– a staggering daredevil drop –
and I wonder, is it all about the hunting?
Or do they also feel the whoosh and thrill
of flipping stomach when they fall?
Like the rush of roller coaster dips
that leave you hungry for the next ride.

24 July – Moving house

When setting off across the path
to make her home on better turf,
I don’t imagine this tiny snail
thought she’d be leaving earth.
To keep her safe from tramping feet,
we momentarily lifted her high,
what a change from what she’d planned –
temporary housing in the sky!
We landed her back on her previous course,
grounded and safe on pastures new,
they say moving house is stressful,
I hope it wasn’t traumatic too!

24 July - Moving house

22 July – Cyanotype fern

I follow the footsteps
of botanical explorers
and press my fresh picked fern
into deep Prussian blue.
I trust the sun,
the waiting,
the water…
and marvel how,
with photography at my fingertips,
this rediscovered technique
of picture painting play
can bring me utter joy.
It grows now forever,
an immortalised white fern
on a cyan fabric square.
But also yields its life,
green to gradual curling,
gingering, gently -furling –
a perfect specimen captured
in a small glass bottle.
What was it like
when this was newly all there was –
great brave science recording
with accuracy for perpetuity
brand new exotic species
from far flung lands?
It must have seemed,
as it half does now,
something faintly fantastical,
beauty, form, life –
arrested on a page
by powerful noon-day light.

22 July - Cyanotype fern

21 July – Lone Ranger

Far from the colony,
away from warren bustle,
the woodland buck goes hunting
all by himself, alone.
He only knows
what he forages for here,
whether choice fallen fruits
or simply peace not found at home.
We see him often now
exploring dappled dank forest floor,
at ease with us watching him
despite his introverted ways.

20 July – Sunset bow

The light has dipped,
the sun is low,
invisible to us now.
But somehow,
in a rain free sky,
a full and faultless cloudbow
arcs high and muted bright
above the gloaming light.
In all my years
of sunsets and rainbows,
this is something I’ve never seen,
and I linger in the garden
to gaze at it longer,
unsure if I’ll ever catch
anything like it again.
You never reach the end
of creation’s wonders
however long you live,
no matter how far you explore;
endless possibilities open,
limitless beauties surprise and stagger
as you walk your way over
our broad green-brown-grey earth,
and live out your days under
its shifting grey-blue-pink skies.

20 June - Sunset bow

19 July – Oriental aroma

Suddenly the potting shed
transforms to Asian arbour
as myriad jasmine stars
begin to come to flower.
I make a daily pilgrimage
to breathe in their scent,
green tea and sticky rice
playing happily in my head.
Upstairs in the bathroom draw,
a Yardley soap with this essence
is waiting to echo jasmine’s joy
when summer’s no longer present.

19 July - Oriental aroma

18 July – Red sky at night

Red sky at night,
everyone’s delight.
No matter what it foretells
of promised sunnier spells,
the magic’s in the moment
where fuchsia and magenta
brush and streak the setting gold.
Never mind your landscape,
your native fauna and flora,
all of us share sunset gifts
with their wide, bold wonder.
I like that sense of unity –
wherever your patch of sky,
you’ll receive precious evenings
draped in this vibrant high.

17 July – July duet

Today was a duet of sunshine and showers,
alternating soakings over several hours.
First one, then the other, now both in time together,
a swirling, whirling dance of light counterpointing weather.
Black cloud backdrops make for brighter spotlights on the hills,
damp drizzle downpours all the more serving to fulfill
the sweet feel of warmth as the choreography begins
directing sunlight surges to drift and filter in.
Down by the river is like a hothouse at Kew,
close and heady with heavy mid afternoon dew.
I choose to play along and get thoroughly drenched,
then sit writing in dazzle on the swing bridge bench.

16 July – Little red bead II

Not once, but twice this week now,
I’ve spotted a spotted red bead
against all conceivable odds
among the long meadow grass.
This second cousin of the first
displayed pure acrobatics,
ascending and descending
green sheer vertical poles.
The grass was dancing wildly
as trees in gale force wind
and it made me marvel still more
at this ladybird circus act.
When you appreciate the scale,
this is extreme dare-devil sport –
talent and technique shining hidden
among the long meadow grass.

16 July - Little red bead II

15 July – Kestrel magic

Today I saw a kestrel seeming floating on the breeze,
looking, for all the world, totally at ease.
But this sight transpired to be optical illusion,
for the bird was not still but in constant motion.
When they suspend they are really flying swiftly,
matching speed to opposing currents completely.
How do they judge an equation so precise –
let alone while looking so far below for mice?
Science and sorcery meet among the thermal winds,
while we drive past and on towards town and prosaic things.

14 July – Queue jumper

It was my turn in the bathroom
but when I arrived
a tiny creeping creature
was already inside.
I tried to reason with him
saying, “Mr Woodlouse,
if you want to take a shower,
obey the rules of this house.
You’ll need to wait in line,
and when your time comes,
you can’t share with a woman,
that simply is not done.”
Of course he ignored me,
but he did go on his way,
so my ablutions were kept private,
hip, hip, hip hooray!

13 July – Little red bead

Like a needle in a haystack,
the chance of seeing her there,
one tiny red bead
in the long meadow grass.
But I spotted her spots
and was instantly a child,
compelled to feel her crawl
through the blades of my fingers.
Ladybird, ladybird,
what a treat to find you,
a tiny little gem
on a weekday morning.
You took some convincing
to go back to your true stems,
was it fun to meet a lady-human
in the long meadow grass?

13 July - Little red bead

12 July – Redheads unite

It’s funny who you meet
on a Sunday morning amble,
neighbours, tourists, friends,
and then close by the brambles,
a tiny trotting stoat
with little white throat
and vivid titian coat
struts out into the road.
It doesn’t stop to chat,
it’s gone without a greeting,
but it lights up my day,
a brief but brilliant ginger meeting.

10 July – Wet walk wonder

The path was as wet as the river
when we still set out to walk,
intent on blowing out cobwebs
and starting weekend talk.
All was streaky watercolour green,
everything leaking, seeping its seams,
smudging and fast becoming
indiscriminate haze.
When suddenly,
all in a rush,
a tiny cobalt dart
swiftly brushed the water
to make a work of art.
Its dazzling brilliance shone
then, as quick, was gone.
And we stood in the rain,
unaware of its soaking,
lost in kingfisher awe –
a turquoise gift-wrapped moment.

9 July – Foxglove forests

Peppered round the dale,
gardens, verges,
moor, woods, river
are little purple forests
growing tall and fine.
Miniature Scots pines
swaying in the breeze,
bending all their strength
to ring their merry berry bells.
Splashes of bright colour
that always bring delight,
whether weed or wild
they’re welcome with me.

But who was the thinker
and what was the thought
that decided foxes’ fingers
would fit in tiny petal sleeves?
Foxgloves seem more suited
to forming party hats for stoats
but I’m not sure such renaming
will catch on with many folks…
So I’ll just allow my sketch
to celebrate their beauty,
and leave the etymology
to heritage and dictionary!

8 July – Creeping beauty

Deep in the woods,
among the dank of the dale,
grow some curious fungi
who have learnt how to scale
the heights of ash and beech
to spread their creeping reach
into little elven shelving,
and mushroom moths unfurling,
all green streaked white and beige
against brown, forest green and sage.
Some even splay like goblin palms
as if stretching out with no qualms
about touching passing strangers
to dissemble and disarm.
I expect my fairy toadstools
to dance in circles on the ground,
but I’m quietly being enchanted
by the bracket fungus I have found.

8 July - Creeping beauty

7 July – Little gutter acrobat

When I want a drink,
I just turn on the tap.
But nothing so pedestrian
awaits this sparrow acrobat.
Up on the conservatory roof,
legs spread wide as a giraffe,
he tilts and turns full upside down
to take a simple draught –
squeezing head through tiny gap,
a limbo dancing ninja,
goodness me, what circus act
will he conjure during dinner?!

6 July – Sweet pea serenade

Is there anything more perfect
than the moment I see
the first sweet peas of summer
winking back at me?
This year they’re by the wayside,
growing wild and free,
a cacophony of colour
tumbling over hedge and tree.
They feel like garden runaways
scaling fence, breaking boundary,
I wonder where they’ll steal to next
to share their cheer and glee.

6 July - Sweat pea serenade

5 July – Heaven-sent

Heaven sent moist bracken scent
to stir my sense of wild.
Childhood southern seaside chines
in adult northern moorland wide
chime, converge, collide.
This is how adventure smells,
the quest – descent or climb,
England a borderless glasshouse,
an exotic landscape to find.

4 July – Sugar sprinkles

Well intentioned phrases say,
“look up”, “lift your head”,
but sometimes there is beauty
in looking down instead.
Saturday’s walk was wet,
my eyes were on the ground,
I couldn’t see the stunning view
but there was still treasure to be found.
Strewn across the track,
mixed with downtrodden grass,
a thousand sugar sprinkles,
discarded petal stars.
Sweet fragrance in the air
tells tales of their descent –
It’s elderflower umbels
for which they were meant.
But tumbled here beneath me,
each individual flower shines
with a new and broken beauty
those on the tree cannot find.
And it makes me remember
the brave wonder of this world,
where the shattered and battered
often transform into pure gold.
So perhaps don’t be frightened
to turn your gaze right down,
there among the debris
is something fresh and profound.