A poem for my father in law

Poem for Derek Beazley. 16/7/24

 

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.


Summer poem – of calves, community and being an outsider, an incomer….

“All things must pass. Mankind is as grass.”

 

Summer poem

Two calves adventured, maybe misdirected

or spooked? Perhaps, a dog?

dived into the grassy basket of Matilda’s field,

bovine misadventure,

not equine, resurrected.

 

In the morning,

a delicious day, already sun baked by nine

June, “in like a lion”,

jet steams, cats cradled patterns

streaked the blue backed, split of sunshine,

and I found one calf

nestled into a bower of bracken

nettled and serenaded by the marshmallow pink and white

of baby breathed hawthorn,

bordered by buttercups.

There it stayed, the whole lazy summer’s day,

nervous, ill at ease

unwilling to gambol or feed

unwilling to make hay.

 

Three farmers came

cattle calling

as the evening slipped away.

Stealthy summer sunset.

Dinas Head diminished,

shadowed

lost horizons

a fishing boat scarred by light

a duskling starshine

in the breathless bay.

 

“They’ve only been out a day or two,

everything a new sensation,

even the sunlight is new.

Don’t know grass

Nor bonded as a group.

They simply don’t understand

what it is

they’re meant to do.”

 

We herded the two runaways out of the gate

leading them lane wards

as opposed to astray

through the greened canopy

outfoxed by foxgloves

the elders floated subdued, ethereal amongst the elderflower

motes, particles, as we passed

behind Bryneithen

and into the railway sided field.

The man I walked alongside of

spoke wistfully

of those, “our friends” likewise lost,

of the ties of this small community

the roped weight of history.

And a hint, a nod perhaps,

towards the incoming stream

a Westwards eddy,

and suggested, maybe implied

the consequential claim:

fragmentation, discord, disunity.

 

In T shirt, shorts and wellies

no farmer, I,

we talked on, joked a little,

a slither of gossip, happenstance,

and yet, a sense, a fractioned hint

of difference

akin somehow, to distance.

Discontent with

the immigrant?

 

The calves were happy though.

For now,

“Let them eat cake”.

 

And then

Dusk dropped the lid

and we parted.

“Perhaps you’ll write a poem”

they ribbed.

And so,

I did.

 

 

Marc Mordey 12 7 14