I stand to applaud among
an audience of dowager hyacinths,
who nod graciously to the pear tree,
which bows its Simon Rattle head
to the porcelain blush of the Sugar Plum
Magnolia, centre stage,
whose curtsy draws in the daffodil chorus,
all swirling skirts, adoring at her feet.
Tickertape blossom drifts down.
Spread-eagled high on a moor,
heather cushions shelter
a patch of warm sky
and the fluting song of a skylark.
Following the chuntering chatter
of a stream, iron gold and brown,
over precarious stepping stones,
encouraged on by the welcoming shout
of a perfect cascade of water.
Butterflies balance on a buddleia.
A seaweed banner trails
across a beach of treasures;
a pink fingernail shell,
bottle blue and green pebbles,
a tiger striped stone.
Hurling my voice and body
into the gale at the top,
cagoule flapping frantically
to hold me back.
Rain, and a bowl of soup, steaming,
by the fire of a friendly pub.
A robin flits close by, bright eye glinting,
stops to stare and then hurries on.
A wood pigeon's breathless call fades
as the oak tree's shadow creeps
to rub itself against the stile.
Words to support, words to uplift,
words that sing of pride of place.
Words to rally, words to rouse,
a chant to unify the crowd.
Words to rant, words to hurt,
words that amplify in hate.
16th January 2001
Moonshine's sexy tonight,
veiled with off the shoulder
clouds. Seductive apricot
silken folds slipping
against oyster gold skin.
Soft organza wisps
gather, wrap around
its flawless form,