My angels were singing : a poem for St David’s Day
This poem was written a few years a go now – and I have shared it previously. I wondered about ‘recycling it ‘ but (rightly or wrongly) I love this poem, and, given that St David’s Day is an annual event, well….here’s to him, to Wales and the Welsh, and ultimately ; to us all!
Ddiwrnod da ac yn flwyddyn wych I ddod.
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.
A buzzard floats,
a feather dusted flight,
mottled by the, ever sweet surprise,
the first fingered, soft whispered flush
of Pembrokeshire sunrise.
Dinas Head, capped in mid morning,
nettle nectared light,
green field and wind worsened hedgerows,
apparently lanced by purple tongued shadows.
Later, Berry Hill cows
cotton wool and soot splashed skins
soaked in castle bound, church wardened
gravestone greyed, flagstone mossed
autumn crazed sunshine.
a late blackberry,bruised and fat
falls, a tiny world of globes,
fruitful, untroubled as
motes of dust sparkle
amidst the faltering strobes,
the cautioning, duskling cackle
of Canadian Geese,
gradually muted, as the sky fades,
souped and stilled,
Starlight sponged on the ink blacked,
split by Strumble headed
lighthouse telescoped beams.
As we sleep, kaleidoscoped and vivid,
in the land of Westerly illuminated dreams.
this poem was written six years ago, but, in the light of the tragic events of this week, has a renewed resonance for me. Rest well.
Heaven Has No Fences
In our world……
The sky is blue bolted and stilled,
spring washed and not yet
I lay in the garden
gazing across the Bay,
a chiff chaff summoning, bell like trilling,
unwittingly willing to add thrill to
a Sunday evening revelry.
Earlier, we walked along the Nevern,
woodlands pin pricked by wood anemones,
bolstered by wild garlic
and the first blue bells creeping skywards.
Nothing untoward until
an owl, a tawny streak,
chased by a furious blackbird
disappeared, chastened perhaps
into the green tented, splintered tree tops.
In your world……
Dawn, presumably, could not come too soon
as you fought your way to the side,
galvanized by the hope a passing cargo ship
The Mediterranean, at one point
a moonlit, blank canvas,
the next moments, a swirling scramble,
angry abstract patterns, peopled by those
in extreme, ultimate, unimagined distress.
I must confess,
a shared sense of hopelessness,
the frustration that our two worlds can be
so far flung, heart strung,
and one almighty mess.
The awfulness of what drove you on
the headlong rush to emigrate
is likewise tough to contemplate.
In part, I too must bear the burden
for these casting votes of carelessness.
Life, the casual combination of magic and loss,
toil, sweat, leisure, excess
the daily, weekly, yearly struggle,
the explosion of the senses.
Can leave my mind muddled, confused,
my values and principles
assaulted by the restless flow of news.
But one thing, for me,
remains as clear as morning dew :
heaven has no fences.
Migrants rescued 10-17 April
Feared to have died attempting the crossing so far this year
- 35,000 Migrants have arrived from North Africa in 2015
- 218,000 Estimated to have crossed the Mediterranean in 2014
- 3,500 Migrants died attempting the crossing last year
that I could live
in a little town
where the Greek coffee
at Rena’s café
and where some of the men
of this small town
to chew the fat
as the honey streaked sun
into the shade