Poems by Mark Boor
| Cast-off in a Charity Shop |
| Bedside Table |
| Monday Morning |
| Autumn Leaves |
| Sun Bleached Bunting |
Cast-off in a Charity Shop
Repaired, probably many times,
sturdy sole, a bit of wear at the heel,
polished aged leather – cared for,
made for hiking and hill climbs
where walls like graphite lines
are drawn across rumpled fields
sparsely grazed by ragged sheep
and scarred with limestone mines,
where rain is routine and manifold,
pitter pattering on hoods and caps,
filling bogs and becks, driven by
gusts, bringing on the cold,
bending scraggy trees, just alive –
roots drawing up life somehow,
appear as skeletons in the mist –
this is a rough world to survive.
An approaching sense of melancholy
disturbs my reverie –
setting them on the rack – I've
been walking in a dead man's shoes.
Bedside Table
Your key in my hand scrapes at the lock. It clicks undone and I push. There is resistance, a heap of post, free magazines and pointless flyers forming a wedge against the opening door. Stepping over them I move forward, past a window where sunlight slants in, illuminating swirling motes of dust. Moving lightly from room to room everything is the same, but nothing is.
your book mark
at the page last read
never to be moved again
Monday Morning
Resting on the riverbank, the early sun already too much for my dog,
he lies panting in my shadow, head resting on front paws.
I pause, I look, I breathe.
On the opposite bank, in a meadow ripe with wildflowers,
stand the ruins of Newark Abbey, buttressed by two imposing oaks,
cattle lazily grazing in deep shade beneath them.
The river plops with the occasional fish jumping for a fly,
river fowl I wish I knew the name of sweep low in a silent rush of glistening feather,
a red kite takes to the sky, circling upwards on the warming air
slowly gliding from my sight, in search of food – or perhaps just for the joy of flight?
And I realise
This was always there.
Autumn Leaves
Marvelling at shimmering amber jewels
I gaze upwards with bittersweet delight.
Autumn leaves a sense of sadness for the passing of your shade.
I look down and see the fallen ones,
The path I knew so well has disappeared.
Autumn leaves a slate wiped clean by your golden hue.
But to my surprise, I am filled with excitement and delight,
Finding a new way, passing amongst trees not seen before.
Autumn leaves as winter's hygge draws near.
And then, emerging from the wood,
Winter wheat planted with deliberate symmetry,
An undulating field of vibrant green, new shoots
Glistening with dew in low autumn sunlight.
Autumn leaves and life begins anew.
Sun Bleached Bunting
Close your eyes and think of England…
no, not like that –
I mean, close your eyes and tell me of the England you see.
Is it the mighty oak, Lord of stately parkland,
National Trust members now picnic
Where courting nobility wandered hand in hand.
Or bracing beach days castle building, rock pooling –
Jumpers, coats and hoods muffling the chill and rain
Cold wet sand sticking to everything.
Or the weather – day to day we haven't a clue
what it will do, but we debate it – endlessly –
particularly in a queue!
Or is the symbol of our nation a nice cup of tea?
"More important than ammo" Churchill proclaimed –
That's how we kept winning world wars, you see!
Or is it village greens on glorious sunny days
Cake laden trestle tables draped in red gingham,
sun bleached bunting fluttering in a summer breeze –
this is England to me.