My angels were singing
Posted: March 1, 2017 Filed under: Photo, Poem | Tags: Pembrokeshire, St Davids Day, Wales 3 Comments
(the view from Carningli. Newport Bay Pembrokeshire. photo by MM)
My angels were singing : a poem for St David’s Day
This poem was conceived over a 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.
Nearly 10 years on, 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!
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
Strumble Head
Posted: July 1, 2016 Filed under: Poem | Tags: birds, Pembrokeshire, Poem, Wales 2 CommentsAt Strumble Head
A half hour stolen from the day, so
I came to Strumble Head.
The sea, blue grey rolling hillocks.
An oyster catchers cry splitting the bay.
Foxgloves, daisies, sky blue candy tufts,
and a cormorant, jet streaming the billows.
The intermittent mirrored wink of the lighthouse
gleaming, sun streaming.
Always, the inner gasp as a breaking wave
behoves a porpoise – or impossibly not.
Simply in my dolphin dreams?
Ever, the reverberating of the gulls,
persistent squalls, mews, occasional screams.
Outside this bubble, a world becalmed
The noise, the mighty chaos and upheaval,
and the smaller fuss, went on.
In Germany, a man, armed
Took a fatal spree, a cinema shooting run.
A composer died, aged one hundred.
Refugees lay, exposed in 50 degrees of heat,
unhindered by aid, a blanket between seven,
no tents, no water, no food.
As the waves primped and plumed,
I wondered
how it is that,
across this planet of ours
the odds remained:
Uneven.
As people on our islands voted
Again, again, again…
My mind was tumbling, Strumble bound
To past walks with you, picnics and dogs.
A curious seal, whiskered and severe
Head bobbed brightly in a cove we know.
The coast path meandered, stumbled.
Lost, then found.
Then, returned to my small reality,
albeit cage dragged and reluctantly.
My heart and soul ablaze, it’s true.
For Strumble, Penrallt and so much else besides.
Gifted, treasured,enormity
this sea bound, cliff scaped endless beauty.
The odds are stacked,
my card marked…
My reward:
From, my ever treasured you.
This poem was written on the day of the UK Referendum (aka Independence Day – ha, the irony!) I shall continue to seek refuge in the beauty of landscape, environment and the unconquerable nature of Nature itself. And, am grateful to all – most especially HB, for this was written expressly for you – who have spoiled me with love and affection.
I am indeed, a most fortunate man.
A poem for St David’s Day
Posted: March 1, 2016 Filed under: Poem, Uncategorized | Tags: birds, blue sky., Carningli, Newport, Pembrokeshire, Remembrance, spring, St Davids Day, Wales 6 Comments
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 –
do try.
And let your angels be singing.
Let your angels be singing.
Light parade – for National Poetry Day 2015
Posted: October 8, 2015 Filed under: Photo, Poem | Tags: blue sky., light, NationalPoetryDay, Pembrokeshire 2 CommentsA 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,
hurricane warning,
nettle nectared light,
honey busted,
green field and wind worsened hedgerows,
shimmering, clustered,
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.
Towards sunset,
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,
horizon blended.
Tonight?
Starlight sponged on the ink blacked,
spangled sky,
split by Strumble headed
lighthouse telescoped beams.
As we sleep, kaleidoscoped and vivid,
in the land of Westerly illuminated dreams.
Pembrokeshire – the first few days of February 2015
Posted: February 5, 2015 Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Carningli, Pembrokeshire, Poem 4 CommentsHush!
The moon, a fat yellow cheese,
gobbles the duskling skyline above Morfa Head.
Later, silver tongued and stealthy
it lights the path for a night time wander
as three dogs and I
ghost along the lanes
badgered, foxed, rabbit worn, and,
turning for home and the deep bliss of the warm bed,
far out on the horizon
a ships light splits sea from sky
and hangs, suspended and watchful.
Yesterday
grey rocks grinned upon the hillsides
spiked, toothsome,
scarring the mountain, snow bleached and soft pillowed.
Today, we walked below Carningli
warmed by thin winter sun
though the wind, when able,
did not hesitate to cut a cruel song,
the grass frost blasted and resentful.
Hush!
A horse nickered,
dogs cavorted and capered,
occasionally raising a sceptical ear to the distant cries of long lost cousins.
Jet planes droned above
buzzing the sea shadowed sky.
Across the valley,
a ragged stone wall crooked a finger,
beckoning, cajoling
“walk on, follow me”.
The hills, plumped and greened,
sun plumed, farm groomed,
sweet air steamed,
all, carelessly platformed
nature framed,
snapshot and scattered
Pembrokeshire, adrift,
ship shaped and sand blasted,
ever kind
to my mind’s eye.
5/2/15
A link to a blog piece on our National Poetry Day (2014) event
Posted: October 6, 2014 Filed under: Photo, Poem | Tags: creative writing, Diana Powell, Dominic williams, Ffwrn, Fishguard, HelenCarey, Lowri Evans, Mel Perry, National Poetry Day, Pembrokeshire, Poetry, Seaways bookshop, Wales Leave a commentlovely photos and a nice piece from Diana – we had a brilliant evening, a richness and diversity of poets , wonderful music from Lowri Evans and Lee Mason, delicious crepes provided by Beatrice of Ffwrn (and served – with great aplomb – by Helen Carey) ….think we will return!!
http://dianapowellwriter.blogspot.co.uk/2014/10/pancakes-poems-at-ffwrn-fishguard.html?spref=fb
thanks Diana
Summer poem – of calves, community and being an outsider, an incomer….
Posted: July 12, 2014 Filed under: Poem | Tags: calves, community, cows, Dinas Head, farmers, flowers, immigration, jetstreams, Pembrokeshire, Summer poem, summertime 2 Comments“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
