In search of Zeus

Greece 2013

Welsh Buzzards

Welsh Buzzards
October 2009

I am sick of being old
And I pang for the ridges of Eyri
Bellowing down to the crag and cwm
Under a grey sky
Where buzzards fly.
And I long for Beudy Mawr,
With it Welshness trickle of a stream,
Staring out into a wild and barren cwm
Where buzzards ply.
I am sick of being old,
And I long for the Welsh peaks,
With their crags and cwms,
Under a grey sky
Where buzzards cry.
Keith Treacher 1923-2012

Treen

Looking towards Treen Oct 2008

We are standing on the battlements of Treen

One night, with moon full, pregnant with life,

Not a breath of wind, spellbound.

Distant sounds trail back and forth across the headland,

Winding up the veined valleys, cresting the tops,

Brushing the rocks that gaze across the concourse

Rising proud against the shadowed night.

And they are numinous still,

Eastern heads lifting to the glinting lights In distant coves,

While deep in mounds of earth, souls sleep silent,

Quickening in their slumber as they dream.

And mighty Morgawr, curled on his seat of storms,

Death and memory like the sea swirling and breaking in his thoughts,

Gigantine, his body, curled and tattooed, plays out a siege 
Against the men of means.

And they have eaten his sacred words.

And they have had their fill of sweetness.

And more -  green and sunset flushed we see, beyond far outstretched Bolerium,

Beyond the pulpit rock beckoning towards Pen-von-las,  Britannia. 
Resolutely swift, striding the cliffs, skirts billowing,

Tresses trailing deep in the darkened waters.

Seductive and secretive, nubile and ancient, maid and hag,

She is the mother and whore to the  dark-eyed seaman,

Mother and whore to the ancient tin miner; mellifluous and sweet

She sings her siren song.

And with mind of eye, with height and stature,
With mystic portent, we glimpse ancient Emain Ablach,
Liminal land, holding against converging seas.
And Manannan, weaving court in midsummer,
Asks of the women, who, with their silken threads
Join in the game of the woven dance, 
'Do you recall the palimpsest?
Give to Bran a rowan tree, let him clasp the silver apple branch, 
With blossoms white and leaves of green.
Sing to him a song no poet yet has chanted'. 

And the words are myriad, the workmanship of souls.

I sing to the ocean of past and future.

I sing to the night and all that is holy.

I sing to the mourners who gather in grief.

I sing to the saint as he exalts the almighty.

As he stands in transcendence reaching alone on his windblown island,

That glorious moment amongst seagulls and spume.

This is my moment - I defy you to see...

Weep you no more

Weep you no more, sad fountains;
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste.
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets:
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at even he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes,
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.

Anon

The Feast of St Crispian

25th October

This day is called the feast of St Crispian
And we are apt to promise much.
Glorious this golden soft October,
Fallen and fermenting
Plunging deep into the Kentish Shire.
We begin at Cranbrook with sign and portent good,
Passed thicket and sweet brook,
With chestnut meat and apple red.
To follow the greenwood canyon is our desire.
And you will say today is St Crispian,
And we in it shall be remembered, we happy two,
On Oxney at Wittersham, Ebony and Stone.
And what of the bowman of England.
Called upon to fight at Agincourt on this day,
Raising the two fingered salute,
Defiant and victorious to the end,
This day is victory too, this time in 2009.
For them, still breathing, still golden,
Still feasting , scented mellow,
Citadels of parasols in meadows sweet,
Flowers of the forest, field in seasonal praise.
And the Lamb beckons with its ghostly rooms,
And the night is falling with the crescent moon,
And the last bus to Rye is silently borne,
Night lighted, to the coast.



VH and MW Walk, 25 October 2009

The Waves

In senescence -  I harbour and float;

In a universe of light I drift.
There is no sound
Save the lifting breath of fabric,
There is no movement,
Save the glinting warming sun.
There is no sound
Save the thrum of my blood.

Light and waves
Dapple against the glass,
The curtain, printed limpet
With flowers, blows easily
Across the warmth of light,
Lazy and blue, sighing,
"Back and forth, back and forth".

And so the blossoms bloom,
And on the opaque blue
The spangle of tangled fishies
Are shiny with light, flitting
And lilting on the lisp of cotton.
Time flows and I dream.
And in this fishy mead, this meadow heaven -

I close my eyes to see my dreams.

In appreciation of Virgina Woolf
VH 2009

Thanet Adventure

Richborough Towers - Beside the River Stour, 8th June 2009

Stolen time it is when summer flowers
And glistens in the morning sun.
Down to the Stour we trip,
Under the sun and the strawberry moon,
Breaking bread among the flags,
Trampling over the rushes,
Feeling the surge of the on-coming tide,
Sensing another field of vision.

June, the gateway to the 'other',
It would serve us well to pay attention.
'Dies Natalis' for Mens Bona.
Good God, good mind, personification
Of Thought's day, we salute you.
This trip to some other side takes our breath away.
Sleepy now, as lambs they dream
Hyperboloids of Shukhov,
Thanet's dark towers,
Tucked up beside the Stour.

Three million tons of coal and Richborough
Lays bare its bones in peace and soon,
With the rain gently falling,
We take cover to watch flotsam floating.
Inspired by Grotowski we drift into the drip,  drip, drip of the play.
Our figs are cornucopic.
We leave and follow the actors downstream.
Softly falls the rain.

And running down to Pegwell Bay by bus,
We hunger - wondering about Hengist and Horsa,
Asking how St Augustine landed his boat,
How he converted the rough islanders of Ruoihm
With his zeal and cruel judgements,
And did he notice in the eventide,
With its skies blossoming from green to pink.
The pretty multicoloured parrots?
The famous Thanet parrots of the wayside trees.

Goodnight! Sleep tight!
You that dream of palms and exotic fruits.
We find the pathway home and take our leave.


VH 2009