Remembering Derek.

This poem was written a few years ago now. But today is the 14th anniversary of the death of Derek Beazley. A lovely man. Cherished and honoured. Derek, this is for you.

(Photo of Carningli by MM)

 
Ten years on
You are remembered,
Cherished memories.
Perhaps ethereal ?
Substance, somehow , immaterial.
Yet,
Your cairn still stands solid,
The view sweeping Nevern,Newport Bay
and into the great blue yonder.
The gorse whispering,
Catapulting
Honey dripping scents
Across mudded marsh,
Rocks streaked and grey,
And heather
Impervious to grazing
Imperious with weather.
Ever the day,
The green backed mountain
Bowling skywards away.

The sea stumbling over Cat Rock
Cat calling gulls
Wind wards sailing.
Larks rising in harmony,
Carningli too,
Cloud ridden and proud.
The ghosts
Iron aged
Must have gazed in wonder
When you emerged
Uphill riding
November misted
Your dogs, ponies
Unerring horse sense,
Picking your way along the paths
The bridle way swarthed and steep.
And now?
No more miles for you
” Before you sleep, before you sleep.”

Sometime farmer, gardener
Mountain man and guide,
Hotelier, meeter, greeter
So much more beside.
Husband, companion,
Fond father with the
Laconic film star drawl.
Startling grandchildren by
Jumping
Wolf like
From behind the wall.

You were Everyman
Welcome friend
And
“Speed the parting guest”
Now departed, yes
But ever shining steady
Amidst
The brightest
And
Amongst the very best.

Modern Times?

It’s Easter Sunday 2018

The train tumbling towards

Pembrokeshire,

Sea spray, sandcastles, estuary breath.

Elsewhere

The British Bulldog

American Eagle

Russian Bear

Square off

Set to

Diplomatic degeneration

Stains the air

( Trouble, the world over,

Done to death).

But the seabirds

The ragged pastured ponies

The coastline

Trees

They don’t care

Where this all is leading

Nor stand

Nor stare.

The Easter mystery

Out there

Magic and loss

Receding.

Beware!

We ought to learn from history

( The fuse lit

Flames may burn

Ancient wounds, lingering slights, insults perceived

Return)

We need to know

I believe it so

Bested by legend

Let’s not be deceived

Enriched through history

Not governed by it.

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi hapus, Happy St David’s Day

(Photos of Carningli – in all it’s moods – by Marc Mordey

 This poem was conceived over a few spring like days, during February 2008 – out walking the dogs, watching the birds, and thinking of those who have died, who do – I believe – watch over us. Some 10 years on (how did that happen?!) I am still fortunate indeed to live and love in a most beautiful part of Wales, and, in my opinion, one of the loveliest places in the world. This is, I reckon, my ‘go to’ poem! (apologies for sharing it each 1st March, but this is done in good faith!)

My angels were singing : a poem for St David’s Day

I stood near the house

where Grace once lived,

My angels were singing.

I watched as birds

and daffodils dived.

My angels were singing.

It’s spring and the sun

bursts fat and alive.

And my angels were singing.

Old crow, silhouetted against Carningli rock,

purple shadowed on blackened burnt bracken,

gorse and heather reeling :

the after shock.

But my angels were singing, still.

As seagulls wheeled across the bay,

catching sea breezes,

tumbling at will.

The Irish Sea lies beneath

becalmed and silvered blue,

and my angels were singing.

Wales’ favourite saint remembered

the new season breaks forth, springing,

flowers dancing, church bells – ringing.

His angels – singing.

Seasons, people, live and die,

here and now is for the living.

But remember those you love or loved –

do try.

And let your angels be singing.

Let your angels be singing.

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi hapus