Gathering Winter Fuel.

The frost is like a powder coating of sweet sugar,

everything looks brittle and fragile, alive.

The berries on the rowan glisten

with a delectable ruby glow.

Redwings scurry by, their calls

like the snapping of twigs.

The handle of the bow saw

stings my hands with freezing frost

as I crunch my way to the top garden.

Everything seems raw, frozen in time

neither growing nor decaying.

I place an ash pole

on the saw horse

and start to saw

my hands ache

with cold

but my body begins

to feel warm.

My breath forms clouds

around my face

and I seem to float

as I rhythmically

saw through the hollow

sounding wood.

As I watch the sawdust heap about my feet

I am thinking the spirits have fled from the ash:

its bark like wave edges left by the tide,

its phallic buds dipped in soot,

Yggdrasill, the World Tree,

putting us back in touch with our dreams.

I am hoping they have sought

a winter home, perhaps the holly or ivy

and I hope too they do not begrudge me

some winter heat on this Yule Tide.

The Old House.

I dare not enter that street now:

I know the buddleia to be gone,

so proud he was of it,

so fascinated with the butterflies,

the red admirals, tortoiseshells, orange tips,

peacocks and cabbage whites.

I still wonder if the yellow Welsh poppies

spring from the cracks in the tarmac

beside the house; if the lad's love

from grandma's top garden,

or catmint, I used to squeeze

between my fingers

for the scent of the past,

still grows around the back?

The garage where he pottered

with lead weights, hooks and line,

is demolished now; I know

no old tools, no spinners,

fishing reels or rods exist,

there is nothing left to indicate his pain,

his life of torment: his passing.

Why should there be?

The house is but a shell,

a shelter from the storm,

a place to return to from war,

sometimes a prison.

The butterflies I hope

have stolen his soul,

and like divine spirits,

seek their nectar

in some wild garden cliff

over-looking calm blue sea.

The River Bank. (In Memory of Kenneth Grahame).

Water-rings,

concentric,

lapping out full of sun,

swirling with summer flowers,

scents and herbs.

Ducks dabbling,

pike lurking in shady pools

among weedy roots,

voles plopping quickly into the stream,

Bronte singing rhymes,

skipping off into halcyon dream,

beneath the pollarded willows,

like mole,

delirious with discovery.

The river beckoning,

exciting,

from Eden flowing:

its mystery calling out,

to the dreamy Water Rat,

spellbound

with the voice of Pan.

Childhood ears and eyes

filled with sparkles, bubbles and chatter:

with stories, that flutter away

like whispers in the reeds,

yet lingering still

on the edge

of adult perception,

in the mind of one

who thankfully,

comprehended

the reason why.

The Offering.

Ever a stranger to darkness,

I steal up the gully,

following the course of the stream,

now choked with rotting leaves,

the smell of crumbling earth,

like a grave,

clogging my nostrils:

the roots of trees,

yew, rowan, birch and willow,

exposed level with my eyes.

A wren, as if emerging new-born

from the soil,

a troglodyte - an elvish spirit,

scolds me almost to tears.

The thick, palpable air

hums in my ears,

dusty sunlight is trapped and capricious.

Over-head clouds slide east

flickering like snap-shots

through silver arms of trees.

A child,

I clutch my offering:

an earth-born thing,

a totem,

a head shaped rock

with dull eyes and granite features.

I do not pay homage,

there is no reverence,

nor do I seek reassurance.

My act is organic, measured,

as natural as the trees

and smell of decay.

Approaching the womb-dark opening

where water trickles,

I feel snared,

held by invisible forces:

caught between worlds.

I leave my humble offering,

creeping back in bewilderment

through the shifting darkness,

my thoughts unsynchronised

like the clouds above.