A Poem for Thursday..."Here a Button is Missing"...

This is my safe place.

Looking out of the old blue french windows with which we honoured the wooden hut. 

 We call it

"The summerhouse".

I miss it so much in the cold winter months.

This winter especially...with so many situations to worry about in the news...on the streets...in the world.

It takes so little to tip the balance of peace.

In families...in countries...in the soul, the heart, the spirit.

So when I read Gunter Grass's poem.."Open Wardrobe", and the little line about a lost button...

....it caught on a hook in my brain....and I thought how little it takes to tip the scales 

and unbalance our lives.

A button is missing and

I’m missing the button.

My coat can’t be shut.

The air is chilly

And I want to close my coat.

I chose a coat today

And a button is missing.

“So search the floor”, they said.

I search the floor under the coat stand.

Such a small inconvenience

And really insignificant at such a time.

But a button would close the coat

And a closed coat is protection.

The dark floor hides what it finds

Squirrels away secrets

Like magpies.

How little we need if we lose a button.

.

Geraldine Snape

March 2022

Good news...the plum tree has excelled itself with it's sweet white blossom.

Other news...the weather has changed and I can only pray that the blossom is not destroyed...

It takes so little.

Stay well.

x

…"here a button is missing"...prompt from...

"Open Wardrobe" by Gunter Grass.

.

the sun stops...

 

Thoughts at the Turn of the Year… when the Sun Sits Still.

"Then Joshua said..."Sun, stand still".....Josh.10:22" 

15.58pm

 last walk down the old field path

My thoughts begin with water in the rill

Full-ferned and moss-muddlied. There sits

A crow on the topmost level of

A bowing birch. Above it still the gibbous moon

Silver-sailing in a pale mourning sky.

 

the ever watchful crows

The magi of mushrooms and

Pale greenness of lichen and I am

Mind-spinning at the turn of the tired old year.

There a gathering of shining starlings

Sitting slanted on an earthen roof and

 

...so this is how the nasturtiums finish...

Wood pigeons murmuring a pied-melody

Where trees scarlet and leaves tumble.

..tumbling leaves and scarlet berries...

The turning prowls through my memories.

Sometimes there are assembling hours

And heaven beckons. Sometimes a glimpse

 

Of seedful poppies sinning in strawberry beds

Scattering feral banks on fecund land.

...the quiet strawberry beds...

So here's to the "Long Moon"to the "Cold Night Moon" to the coming again of "The Light"

Here's to the yuletide log...and the family feasting...here's to love and kindness.

To all.

April's best week.

 

This is the week where the leaves unfurl

where the blossom excels

where frog spawn becomes tadpoles

where the sun is warm at noon

but the evenings are cool and you throw on another woolly sweater. 

The Labyrinth
Above the grassy labyrinth

Wood browns flirt and flutter in pairs

Catching rays of gold

On mottled wings.

So new life emerges

Playful and coquettish

To fly and suck

On summer's nectars.

The struggle from

The winter's binding

Strengthening flight

And damp moss perfumes

Dappled sunlight.

While blackbirds claim

Old Territories and sing.

 

A spring haze that makes a watercolour painting of  trees
Bathes pink and soft green tops on sky stretched branches.
The land wakens with misty light and water gives growth
As hill and mountain overflow with bubbling springs.
Late afternoon still air glows rose on lazy strollers
And the chill sends them indoors to slump
Contentedly in front of smokey wood burning fires.

Looking for the Penketh Kingfisher....

 We go regularly to try and see a kingfisher on the brook nearby.

Never have.

But  often meet up with those who have...and feel a bit miffed that it's so elusive for us!

The brook is first seen at the bottom of the lane by The Potters House Penketh on Heath Road.

We stand at the bridge and gaze over...but though the view is lovely...no kingfisher.

We walk through the housing estate to the brook as it travels ever down to the Mersey...

No kingfisher...though this morning a post on social media rejoiced at the sight of it flying across the the water!

So the best I can do is post this poem written after another unsuccessful lockdown search.....

               

 Kingfisher

I went looking each day    for the kingfisher

where it had been    when it was seen

no sign   no joy   when I went looking

 

I saw the skinny long-legged fisherman

his steely presence   stately gaze

coiling his neck in a waiting game

but never the fisher-king

 

by park   canal   by river and brook

no splash of water   no flash of blue

nor was it seen on the brim of my ken

when I went looking

 

I saw swans glide and paddle   their full-wings

poised   posing for artists   cygnets behind

in a frothy wake   by some willow herb

but nowhere the Penketh bird

 

I am abandoned   covet the sight

long for his beauty   cut to the quick.

Geraldine Snape Jan 2021

 

November Sunshine...

 

It's not an easy thing coping with change in these days... 

Lines are drawn on winter grass

I stop and stand for a moment

whisper...don't go...don't go.

It's my soul song  my heart cry

Shell and stone   feather and bone.

Black oak stark against blueness

Drawing  restoring  slow breathing

sigh...don't leave...don't leave.

My soul song   my heart cry

Shell and bone   feather and stone.

For these we give thanks again

For copper rustling  mossed cushions

cry...stay awhile...stay awhile.

Sing my soul song   slow my heartbeat

Shell and stone   feather and bone.

Lines are drawn on winter grass

A low sun moves and shadows pass

now going...soon fading.

My heart cry   my soul song

Shell and stone   feather and bone.

Lockdown walks...

Here's a pic of some summer flowers in the herb garden.

"Fox and cubs"

Lockdown walks in Penketh

I'm enjoying the need to walk around the district again!!

Over the weekend two lovely walks towards the south of the parish...

Sankey Brook...

...making it's way down to the Mersey River...

...and this one very close to our home...

... the walk down to the Ferry Inn by the Mersey and the yacht haven in the Sankey Canal...

...golden light on the water..still...

...the boat yard by the canal... 

 

..and here's some lovely autumn colour from the garden at 

The Potters House Penketh.

..as they say on all the blog posts...

"Stay Safe"

🍂

Song for Spring

Song for Spring

Praise be to the swallows

Who dared to venture north this week

Praise be to those fellows.

Praise be to the sun

All glorious in the shadows it throws

Praise be to the sharp sun.

Praise be to the green grass

Softening the verges with the red bilberry

Praise be for the petrichor.

Praise be to the coal black ravens

Nesting high in the tallest beech trees

Praise be for cawing birds.

Praise be for the seasons

Catching us unawares each year

Praise be for the northern spring.

...there is time to enjoy and time to reflect...

Ruskin's Library ... Brantwood..

Brantwood

This  for me is the most interesting room in Ruskin's home at Brantwood on the banks of the Coniston Water.

We were given the prompt by Geraldine Green to write about several of the curiousities in the cabinets.

I like a cabinet or shelf of curiousities...I have quite a few...the family would say.

Ruskin's Library

The moths are dead and lie under a protective glass dome
no danger to the carpets now         a wasps nest is empty
and the buzzing occupants have fled       to a foreign field
though the hover fly hovers no more              in my mind
I still hear his song of summer       by the specimen chest
it's closed drawers                         and locked cupboards
invite  illicit exploration                or maybe the bookcase
dusted and locked securely                  against the moths
will  reveal the truth              truth about the Turner copy
did the grand man know the artist            was he thrilled
to be chosen to reside in Ruskin's library               where
the Madonna still comforts her holy crying child
now fixed in stone         colour glazed       Liverpool style
over the fireplace            at a window seat there is space
enough     to hide       behind a long green velvet curtain
instructions tell me                I must not touch or horror
of horrors play                with the Armillary sphere     or
woe betide me     if            I  use the ornate writing tray
with its inks to pen my  inktober poems           better far
to find my own curled leaf   out      in the gardens where
freedom  reigns                        and rain brings freedom.

A Shelf of Curiousities with the potter's ceramic clown at the front.

A Box of Vanitas....Broken Bird's Eggs found in the field

Venus of the Bay...vanitas

Have fun this week everyone. x

A Poem for Thursday

This poem has had a spring clean....some editing!

It amazing what a month or two of lying low can do for words.

The arrogance of birds...
or ...
The jealousy of ground dwellers.

Here's what you get for having a tree in your garden.

You get magpies and crows, wood pigeons and robins,

 Who perch on the very top branch in an April morning

When the mellowness of Spring mists are rising.

And they look down at the world around them

 Feeling superior to us below at ground level.

And that's what you get for allowing a tree

To reach its ultimate height...... apart from the oxygen.

...you can see more of my pics at instagram geraldinesnape

A Poem for Thursday..."Just Desserts"

The prompt on Thursday morning was...."Desserts"...but with out fail everyone of us thought of "Just desserts". So the stories were rich with comeuppances!!
I decided to go for lists. We had been encouraged at the last workshop at Aldeburgh to think along this line...so this is what arrived.

...it applies to whatever you do....

A Poem for Thursday....in memorium Dave King

Such sad news tonight fromBrian of dVerse poetry blog...that the poet Dave King has died.

More than any of the internet poets he encouraged me as I tentatively moved back into writing...something that I had given up for years, after being published and knowing sucess in my 20s.

These two poems are in response to the prompt from Brian to write about someone who has encouraged and inspired us. And these two are written in memory of my father and my mother...who encouraged me in my youth to believe that I had someting to offer and a talent to be explored.

 The Irish Bull

He could spin a good story

That fellow.

He could make you believe

There were fairies.

Convince you that things

Were not just as you thought.

Suck you in

Wrap you round

Make a net with his words.

'Til you felt yourself dizzy

And losing perspective.

Believing his line

With it's hook 

And it's bait.

And the further you fell

For the twinkling words

The closer you came 

To believing his spiel.

Aye, he had a grand way 

With a story.

...thanks dad...

Mary

I walked along beside her

In war days.

Trusting her

That she should know the way.

Up the hill

Under the arching trees.

Down the lane 

Into the yard.

A foreign land of mud and hens.

Strong smells.

Scrubbed pine

And Mrs. Brown

Who sold us butter, eggs and bacon.

And then we walked away agin.

Down through the fields

Toward the smoking city.

While the mournful sounds of the curlew

Floated

Over the empty countryside.

...thank mum...

...and thankyou Dave for knowing you and your words.

This is for dVerse and is in memorium.