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...