via Four questions
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,
Perhaps ethereal ?
Substance, somehow , immaterial.
Your cairn still stands solid,
The view sweeping Nevern,Newport Bay
and into the great blue yonder.
The gorse whispering,
Honey dripping scents
Across mudded marsh,
Rocks streaked and grey,
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,
Cloud ridden and proud.
Must have gazed in wonder
When you emerged
Your dogs, ponies
Unerring horse sense,
Picking your way along the paths
The bridle way swarthed and steep.
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.
Fond father with the
Laconic film star drawl.
Startling grandchildren by
From behind the wall.
You were Everyman
“Speed the parting guest”
Now departed, yes
But ever shining steady
Amongst the very best.
Grace and Grit _ this is such a fantastic collection – of photos and of words, wanted to share. Hope you will enjoy it. Meantimes, a new poem is brewing….watch this space!Posted: July 10, 2018
via Grace and Grit
It’s Easter Sunday 2018
The train tumbling towards
Sea spray, sandcastles, estuary breath.
The British Bulldog
Stains the air
( Trouble, the world over,
Done to death).
But the seabirds
The ragged pastured ponies
They don’t care
Where this all is leading
The Easter mystery
Magic and loss
We ought to learn from history
( The fuse lit
Flames may burn
Ancient wounds, lingering slights, insults perceived
We need to know
I believe it so
Bested by legend
Let’s not be deceived
Enriched through history
Not governed by it.
(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 –
And let your angels be singing.
Let your angels be singing.
Dydd Gŵyl Dewi hapus
I wouldn’t usually (re) publish two poems over two days but on the 11th January last year our beloved hound, Phoebe, died, and we remember her, miss her and relish the time we had together. This is dedicated to all dog/animal lovers ; it’s the price we pay?
For Phoebe, the dog star.
(i) The joy of running.
A bolt from the blue,
A golden arrow streaking , skirting Newport bay
Effortlessly matching sand sail and surf.
A pimple, possibly canine, on the farthest horizon
was enough to take you away,
bullet running, wide pawed dancing.
Find the fiercest dog you could – and make it chase you!
You and Maisie rising and falling like dolphins
in the meadow sweet, long grass of summer.
In Wiltshire woods the intoxicating frustration of putting up deer,
glad running into the copses,
thundering through bramble and bracken,
off, into the dim distance.
Leaving us with the panicky emptiness of the long wait.
half an hour, maybe more,
then you would appear, purple tongue, seemingly a mile long,
hawking for breath, flat out on the green downs.
(ii) A wolf god.
Eyes, soul pooled,
Anput, Egyptian dog princess,
Pharaoh dog, friend to Anubis.
strong willed and sublime.
(iii) The ghost dog.
Nothing here of your decline,
just the final, dreadful, sting.
Hot teared night, tumbling on your velvet snout.
Earth drenched, she sleeps, soft blanketed.
A grave peppered with violas and first daffodils.
Now, a ghost dog walking with us.
Through Pengelly woods, wintered, mulched and mudded.
Teifi Lakes spiced with snow.
The estuary, silvered, flat calm and kind.
The pine forest near Lampeter, muffled.
Is that you?
A shivering movement amidst the trees.
A backwards glance, somehow you fill the space.
A muted howl of greeting, a murmur on the breeze?
We too will be scattered skywards,
dark skies and moonbeams,
And, out there,
awaits our Sirius,
our dog star.
Phoebe was a lurcher, saluki, greyhound cross. A Battersea Cats and Dogs rescue hound. A huge character, acknowledged as a beauty by pretty much everyone she met. She was really quite regal, did not offer her affection lightly, and had a wicked sense of humour and mischief. A dog, yes, but so very much more. She lifted and lightened our lives for some 15 years or so, and we miss her terribly.
This poem is the best I can do. 7/2/17.
It has been said, “time heals all wounds.” I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy.