Books
Poems from the two collections
A Publican
The landlord surprised at his clear head
After an evening’s work with noise and drink
And then the long late wine and dice with friends
In easy talk, not stilted Roman words
As country couples went off to their beds.
He meant to stroll round calling at the barn
To give that desperate couple half a flask
And hear their story better than he had
When shouting ‘yes’- too busy to say ‘No’.
There was a story there, perhaps some risk,
Helping a worried man with that young girl
About to drop a kid and far from home.
His wife slept on, unhindered in her sleep.
He watched the rushing continents of cloud
Moving above the sharp white tavern walls
The big star hidden and then bright again
An unexpected sight through these tax days
Which paid him well for all the pain they caused.
He heard soft country voices in the yard
And three tired horses walking in the dust
Then turned against his wife’s broad back and slept
And missed it all until the morning came.
As years went by his tale changed with the times,
A landlord must take care with politics.
He never thought he’d go down in the books
For one small piece of hurried careless good.
A Village Church
The lambs of old St James are few
At our small village church
Our usual gate is only eight.
Important to attend
To keep the numbers there
And guilty when you don’t
As if you broke a chain.
Not that we look like lambs
Older a bit than that
But each one plays a part
And reads or does the prayers.
We love those brightsome times
When others join us there
On starry Christmas nights
Or mist fresh Easter morn.
Our good old organist
Who plays the best he can
But wanders from the way,
Makes tunes quite hard to spot.
So, when we work one out
A verse or so along
We join in then with joy.
Some bastards stole the lead
And not just once but twice
November time and wet,
So Dorothy and Sue
Put buckets all around
And we had vengeful thoughts
Not Christian in the least.
We had a time- shared priest
With six St Elsewheres more
Around the Suffolk Heaths.
Disorganised but kind
She sometimes got confused
Misnaming those who’d passed
At funerals more than once.
And if no vicar’s there
We sometimes turned to Clare
Our ‘elder’, though she’s young,
Well young compared with us.
She’s cheerful bright and strong
Finds fun in everything
And tells the gospel well
But knows she cannot sing.
I love this quiet church
Within its flint knapped walls
Eight hundred years of prayers
Have added to the peace.
I love to see the signs
Of locals great and good-
The Doctor from this place
Who died in Africa
Beloved physician there
The shining brass plaque says
The story now untold
The living matter more
Its people make a church
And though we are so few
So few
The light does not go out,
As we keep walking on
In faith’s slow relay race.
And Dorothy and Sue and Clare
In many deeds of unsung care
Reach to the village and the village knows.
The Paddington Band
Westminster Cathedral - December
Held in a huge darkness
I watch the candle banks,
The piling pinpoint flames
Like small bright ships in line
At anchor for the night.
There is no silence here
The blackness sings above
And back on earth the hum
Of shuffling whispered prayers.
I sit and stare at cosmic dark
Stretching to a roof
Which might not be
Time waits
And in this time machine
I look inside my head
No angels there and yet,
Angels or not this is a holy place.
Life, Death and Football
No more the chimes at midnight
We heard the chimes at midnight my good friend
And parted warmly in a fug of ale
Singing of beer and football, life and love,
You in a cab and me to Paddington,
But many, merry rounds missed me my train.
I took the last one heading for the West
Though not my stop, alas, I learned too late.
Too soon to Swindon and a cold, meshed bench
To pierce the anaesthesia of the drink
With no train back until the morning light.
I phoned home then to tell all and explain
Hoping perhaps that you might rescue me,
But ‘get the first train out’ was all you said
And not unreasonably at ten past three.
Few things so quiet as stations in the night
Only a freight train’s rattling to a fade
From time to time as minutes tiptoed by.
I looked inside my workbag for a book.
This week’s improving read for my commute
Was Langland’s Piers the Plowman- no laughs there.
With nothing else to do I hunkered down
Until at last a dawning chorus came
Of early risers trotting for their trains
And ‘See it, say it, sorted’ nagged again.
I boarded dozily and found a seat.
Soon back at home I had a bath and ate,
Then kissed you and went off to work again,
My matchsticked eyelids fighting me to close.
So zombily I wandered through the day
And bluffing hard I felt I’d make it through.
And all was well until you phoned to check,
My love, that I was still O.K. and then,
Of course, my cover blew, and they all laughed.
And now, those chimes at midnight I’ll forsake
So never more to Swindon by mistake.
Road Closed
The cuckoo calls, and Hockings comes
From hibernation long,
The rushing clouds crowd on the hills
The garden’s full of song
Time now to fix those potholes deep
Along the still drenched ways
Diversion signs grow everywhere
In yellow springtime haze.
Diversions, diversions
Are everywhere to see
The day we went to Ilfracombe
By way of Umberleigh
As snowdrops come, the roadworks too
With cones and lengthy lights
The road is closed the next sign says,
Though who knows if that’s right.
You drive on wishing hard for luck
Still hoping for a clue
And scan both ways along the banks
And then, Oh Hell it’s true!
Diversions, diversions
Are growing far and near
The day we went to Appledore
By Langtree and Shebbear.
So many Devon roads there are,
Through hamlet, village, towns
A weaving, winding network strong
That links green hills and downs.
We should not moan.
We want them fixed
Needing to drive each day
But when you’re through,
please move the signs
So we can know our way.
Diversions, diversions
Please move them when you’re done,
So we can come from Bideford
straight home to Torrington.
With apologies to fans of G.K Chesterton
Breaking Butterflies on Wheels
Breaking Butterflies on Wheels
Is what the state now does to activists
To vicars, teachers, smart old Quakers too
Whose main crime is to try and wake us up
By dreadful deeds like stopping traffic flow,
Scaling of gantries, lots of things with glue.
While in the south in Mali, India, Spain
The temperature climbs up beyond belief
I think of far Sikasso and our friends
The women planting crops in gardens fair
And digging wells deep down for water scarce
Now facing much worse fate than being late.
And in the far North where there should be ice,
The noble Polar bear still tries to live
On floes which fade so fast that life must end,
And lonely bears in Zoos and history
Is all we’ll know of them and many more.
Ironic shame to break a butterfly
This lack of vision desperate and sad.
An irony for our depleted land
Where soon our butterflies will be
On cards and pictures only, memories.
Current projects
While I've not written anything yet, I'm planning a book about my experiences and links with Mali in West Africa, as well as another poetry collection which is still at the 'in my head' stage. No words yet, but watch this space...