Anyway, my Irish holiday (the past) is still with me and I find reliving moments which then lead me further back in time to when we were young (ish) parents and the boys were little.

I feel the need to impose some order on things so I am experimenting with form. This is always a challenge at the best of times, but form with rhyme…does my brain in. Nevertheless, I am determined to try. The poem today is my first attempt. It also revisits a moment from the recent past of the Ireland trip and a moment from the same place but thirty-eight years earlier.

As ever, it’s nice to have feedback but try and be nice because I am feeling a bit vulnerable. Last week a male poet host damned me with faint praise by telling me my poems were lighthearted and whimsical. Whimsical. I read a poem about seasonal depression. Anyway, here’s a bit of light-hearted whimsy for you. And did he cross the sea, dear readers? He did. I miss him.

Saint Christopher Carries His Son

Down The Dunes To Strandhill Beach

My son with his son clinging to his back,

runs through the dune sand and the marram grass;

They giddy slip, slide down to a soundtrack

of whoops, laughter and mothers’ fearful shrieks

to slow down, stop, slow down! Everyone’s cheeks

flushed pink by the teasing of the wind.

I watch them race: the rider, his horse;

they gallop, neighing and snorting their fierce

joy in the wheeling of gulls and the wild force

of waves breaking white along the shoreline,

the scudding clouds, moments of sunshine

the pinch of the ordinary left behind.

On the beach they begin their acquisition:

pebbles small and large, seashells, grey driftwood

which form the target and the ammunition

for the game. They launch the wood and throw,

fling the stones, the shells, wanting each one to go

higher, further, deeper than the one before.

I think of my other boy, far from us now.

When he was our only, we brought him here,

brought him to this roiling crash and foam. How

he hurled himself into the blue-green ocean,

made me cry out, heart wracked by a notion

that he would cross this sea once he was grown.

While we were there in our roles as Moomi and Grandad we enjoyed some babysitting. Our grandson (only two years old) enjoys books and sharing a story together, however I wanted to try something different and instead of looking at a book together I wondered how being told a story might be received and whether it would make bedtime quieter and more satisfying. He certainly warmed to tellings of Goldilocks and the Three Bears! I think mummy and daddy are sometimes adopting telling rather than reading stories.

I started thinking about the psychoanalytic interpretations of fairytales and their role in the development of the self. I read lots about this millions of years ago when I was studying for my MA. This is exciting me and poems will definitely ensue. Meanwhile, here’s a couple that touch lightly upon the things to be found in the dark forest of the unconscious. Hope you enjoy them! Next time we babysit we will introduce the Billygoats Gruff and Little Red Riding Hood. I’ll let you know how they go down!

Confession

Don’t think I didn’t know what I was doing

when I left the path, there is only so much

never straying to left or right a person can bear.

I knew about the flowers too,  all the secret places;

it wasn’t my first time.

I let the moon take me, walked under the pines,

through the needled forest floor until

I reached the place where it waited.

Its greyness was rich, warm as smoke.

I knelt,

grabbed handfuls of  thick pelt,

held it to my face, inhaled the scent of it -

frosted nights, the iron tang of blood-

wanted the strength, the heat of it.

I loosened my cape,

undid the hood,

left them for the woodman to

assume the worst.

I dressed myself a wolf skin embrace;

it wasn’t the first time.

A Walk In The Landscape

Of The Brothers Grimm

This is the forest.

Dark trees, dark stories

grow together,      

roots thread underfoot,

toadstools grow, red

as a girl’s cape.

Twisting paths, tangled

narratives of pine, beech,   

unexpected meadows,

rowan trees, heavy

with berries.

Stones that trip and

fell the walker, surely

as a woodsman’s axe.     

And between the arms   

of trees - light, through

a cottage window,   

flickering hope

of fairy tale endings.

The local art gallery, known as The Model, after the Model School that used to be there, has a wonderful collection of work by Jack Yeats, brother of course to William. The building is an atmospheric place and I really felt the presence of the generations of children who had gone to school there. There’s a poem in it, though not one yet written. I did write a few short bits, some of which I posted as notes but I shall bring them together here.

A Wild Shore

Crow    

hangs in the air, held

by the wind

buffeted and helpless as

a paper kite.

The  Atlantic roars,

hurls itself at the sand

and a small boy

high on his father’s shoulders

laughs with delight

at the incoming tide.

That poem was probably from our first day’s outing. It felt very special to bring our grandson to ‘the land of his people’ especially as I have never been able to take my own sons to the places that feel like home to me; they are war torn and broken.

Of course we also went to do homage to WB Yeats by visiting his grave in Drumcliff Church. Such an atmospheric place because of the rooks, crows and jackdaws that gather in the trees and the powerful presence of Ben Bulben beyond the church wall.

Drumcliff Churchyard

Here the corvids are kings;

they preside, sing praises

in hoarse voices to the memory

of the dead who lie below.

They gather in the crowns of trees,

cast cold eyes over the living,

ride over the mountain on

wild winds.

We walked the Aughris headland and looked back towards Strandhill. I thought about those who left on boats chartered by the Gore-Booth family at the time of the famine. These particular emigration ships left from Sligo. I know how it felt for me as a child, leaving a familiar world behind but how much more terrible then when those sailing knew there was little likelihood of returning.

Strandhill

The marram grass ripples; it is the wind wolves slinking through into the dunes. There was a time when boats sailed from the bay, over the cold ocean to a new world. The ones who sailed were hungry but not for  adventure, bewildered to be leaving everything behind.  Some must have watched from the deck, watched as the mountain shrank and the song of the sky lark dissipated through the air until it sighed into silence. And all the while, from the top of the mountain the ancient queen wept to see them go.

On our last day, we climbed Knocknarea to visit the cairn there. It’s said to be the grave of the legendary Queen Maeve. Amazing.

Coral on the mountain

Down from the cairn.

In places the stones slipped us;

sometimes we took our chances -

ran, swift footed as could be,

letting the momentum take us.

Sometimes we stood, caught our breath,

turned ourselves around

and around,

looked up, looked down,

tried to comprehend where we had been

and there, under our aching feet, was

coral, fused into the mountain’s

limestone core; rock shadows

from a time three hundred million

years ago when what we had worked

so hard to climb

was hidden,

deep beneath an equatorial sea.

Ah, the time we had. I will write more, better crafted poems but I am already fond of these fellas.

      These recent poetry experiences have given me cause to reflect on why I write and what is so enriching about the writing and sharing of poems. I realise that I have almost given up submitting poems to journals. Why? I struggle with rejection, maybe? Nah, I don’t think it’s that although obviously it does smart a bit.  I am not the best judge of what’s a good poem by Beth Brooke as opposed to what’s a dreadful one.  The number of poems that I have written of as ‘failures’ that then get really positive reactions on social media or at poetry readings is striking.  My approach these days is just throw bits and pieces in out there and see what happens.

What’s all this got to do with reckless beauty, you might be wondering? Well truthfully that’s a line from a poem of mine that I rediscovered earlier this week and I thought - nice! I hope you like it. It was a poem that arose from one of those writing exercises, long forgotten. The other poem is a favourite of mine though. It’s a good example of how a news story can capture the imagination. I love Notre Dame cathedral. For me it is a symbol of our shared European history and identity. I cried as I watched the news. BUT, then… a news story. 200,000 bees were housed in hives on the roof of the cathedral. They were sited on top of the sacristy by Notre-Dame's south side, around 30m (98 ft) below the main roof. They remained untouched by the flames. A little buzz of hope. Bees continuing to thrive on the roof of Notre Dame, moments of reckless beauty indeed. There’s poetry in that.

Vase

The vase stands on the hall table,

cracked, water seeps out

in cool rivulets that trace a path

down the glazed exterior of

rich green, blue, cloud-swirl white.

This is the only vase in the house

but the flowers in the garden

are so beautiful that

each of us cuts a stem,

fills the vase with blood-red peonies,

irises the colour of midnight,

roses like the blush of evening sun.

Flowers in a cracked vase,

a burst of reckless beauty.

The Bees of Notre Dame

On the roof of the cathedral,

the bees sleep,

soothed by warmth,

by smoke as rich as frankincense;

their dreams hum

with the sweetness of nectar

gathered on the Rive Gauche.

The wax cells soften in the hives;

honey seeps, drips down

unseen, unnoticed, but

the bees sleep.

The crackling far below

drifts into their dreaming

as the rustle of paper wings.

On the pavement

people swarm, drawn by

a memory of faith

and grief.

They gaze up,

incredulous.

My blood pressure is rather high at the moment and I am not doing a very good job of practising mindfulness and all those things that mind help. The lingering asthma means I can’t go for a run. All in all there’s nothing for it but to retreat into poetry.

Today’s offering makes use of Shakespeare. I found myself thinking of John of Gaunt’s deathbed speech in Richard II. It describes an idealised England; an England often evoked by those of a particular political outlook. I tried to use it to fashion a speech more in keeping with my own outlook at the moment. Hope you like it.

John Of Gaunt Rewritten

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

built some said by Nature for herself

against infection, has made a shameful

conquest of itself.

This little world once called a

precious stone is set no longer in a silver sea

but wraps a moat around itself of

effluent to serve it in the office of a wall

to keep out those in need of

Christian service and true chivalry.

This land of such dear souls has fallen

prey to those who hold our virtues all

to ransom, our reputation through

the world leased out by those prepared

to profit from the trafficking of misery.

No cry for God, none for St George,

We turn those men away, their skins

too dark, their tongues too accented.

Our country’s bound in shame,

with inky blots and rotten parchment bonds

that ask us to accept that white is black,

that sea is land and subject to the laws

of trespass and all the while the devils

sent to rule us smile, smile

and act the villain.

Let’s start with Easter. If you read my work regularly you will have spotted references to God and Biblical things. After a bad experience with the Quakers I am not sure where I am in relation to faith and I certainly miss the fellowship I had enjoyed until that all went wrong. I miss God, he never calls, he doesn’t write but sometimes he leaves things for me to find. The poems today are all written as responses to things the deity has left for me. Let’s start with this one:

The Risen Christ

Liverpool Anglican Cathedral 1993

In the work of our hands, we find God,

in the shaping, the chiselling of marks

upon a skin, a page, a body of

wire and plaster.

In the contemplation of light upon

the surface of things, God waits for us,

arms open, hands ready to hold.

In stillness and silence, what we speak,

what we leave unconfessed, God listens,

accepts our brokenness.

We offer ourselves to the business of creation;

We offer up the love we hold for all things;

We offer our seeing, our hearing, our doing,

Lay down our work at last, look to come home.

God stands at the door to welcome us.

It’s a Frink poem. The statue referred to was her very last piece of work and she died very soon after its completion. It didn’t make it into my Transformations collection because a mentor suggested that Christianity as overt as this often alienated readers. Sorry. I found the poem the other day and thought how much I had hoped that Lis Frink had been welcomed through that eternal door at the end. She deserved to be. I like its message of acceptance and love and that statue was one of the things God left for me to find.

The next poem is entirely about love. I have written poems about my grandson Robyn several times and you can find some if you rummage in my early posts. He’s two and a quarter now and full of words, ideas and enthusiasm. We spent Easter with him. This poem is about a bit of imaginative play we had together. In May we will take him to Ireland where his grandad comes from and show him the gorgeousness that is Sligo.

In Which We Play Nursery With Robyn

Today’s game is Nursery,

soft toys lined up and ready

to rehearse the day for us.

First there is counting

and seeing who is first

to spot the numbers hiding

in Elmer’s counting book.

Then, singing, something like

Twinkle, twinkle little star and

variations on do re mi

voiced by grandad and

matched to character through

volume and pitch - Gruffalo

a deep growl,

dragon raspy and LOUD.

Afterwards we have snacks.

The creatures sit in

around the table fashioned

from the number book;

we count to check that

everybody’s here.

Robyn brings out the fruit:

little wooden renderings of pears

and apples, strawberries

and kiwi fruit, and capable

of being divided into

pieces by a wooden knife.

Cut, cut, cut,

then carefully, tenderly,

he shares it all around.

We join in with the nom nom

noises, act out the chomping

and the yumming up.

After snack it’s bikes,

which whale and dolphin

find difficult to manage

and then, miraculously,

wonderfully, what comes next

is a nap.

Last poem, then. I was last in Sligo in 2022. While we were there this happened. It was a good thing. Grateful to God for arranging this one.  Anyway, I hope you like these. As always let me know what you think. Maybe let me know what God/the Universe leaves for you to find.

Glossy Ibis At Raghley Harbour, Sligo

The god of learning, patron of scribes, rummages

in the marsh meadow, looking for worms.

He probes the soil with a curved bill, insinuates

it between the muddy roots of yellow irises.

Later, Thoth wanders onto the beach, hunts

for small crabs under seaweed strands

at no point does he seem to realise

how far he is from home.

i

Five days without rain and my garden is dry enough

to walk on.

In places celandine, the lesser sort, has taken over:

a straggling mess of almost buttercups.

I think about weeding. Lack enthusiasm.

On the way into town rooks have started building nests.

They offer me a running commentary on their progress.

Meanwhile, the gulls - who have been away - are back,

patrolling the rooftops and shouting,

always shouting.

The rooks shout back: fuck off.

I take the long route through the cemetery, away from

the avian back and forth.

Plastic flowers on some of the graves affront me

but there is an exuberance of yellow primroses

between headstones. They call to me: look, look!

I see how they are animated by the breeze.

I think of Nowruz in Shiraz, when the Eram Garden

was full of pansies, orange calendula;

I stood in line with all the other pilgrims,

waited to lay my hand

upon Hafez the poet’s tomb.

Today instead, I will shout like a rook at the news.

ii

In the evening,

Mozart’s Requiem in a local church.

The night is cold, Orion‘s belt visible.

Betelgeuse glows: a beacon in those

dark times when the moon is prone

to alteration.

Tonight, the moon is a golden lunula.

I breathe in the music, let it

speak to me of judgment, redemption,

grief.

Beyond the choir is darkness.

The small red light of the sanctuary lamp

proclaims the invisible presence of God.

The choir sings, Dies irae, day of wrath;

no Sanctus yet, the hymn

of victory, that triumph over death.

In the Strait of Hormuz light bursts

over the water.

iii

The first warm day of Spring,

warm enough to sit outside.

We order coffee; there is

the question of cake.

So much choice on display:

French breakfast pastries,

tiffins, flapjacks, cinnamon buns.

So much choice for those

who have time and freedom

to choose.

In Esfahan

we had baclava and

some sort of carrot cake;

it was enough.

There was cardamom coffee.

I think about the people around

Naqshe Jahan Square.

Do they sit in the sun, drink

coffee while the drones fly?

Is there any kind of cake?

iv

This morning the church bells are ringing

and I do not know why.

Google tells me it’s the saint day of

Oscar Romero, a good man murdered

as he celebrated Mass.

I do not think the church bells toll for him.

The warmth of yesterday is gone,

a cold wind strafes the grass,

disturbs the branches of the yew tree;

the sky is the colour of dirty snow.

I see a small girl crying  as she trails

behind her mother.

I watch them pass on this day that

asks me to remember a good man

murdered, this day where a child is

crying and her mother keeps walking,

this day where whole classrooms of

children have been turned into

collateral damage. Where? It hardly

seems to matter so long as

the bells keep ringing.

Anyway, this poem is me as daughter, the next will be about being a mother. Hope you like them.

Our Final Mother’s Day ( 2020)

I bring my thank offering:

six- pack of a fine German lager,

card expressing appropriate sentiment,

you like ‘a good verse’ and despite your

dimming faculties, can still read.

I place these items in the vestibule,

that airlock, shielding you and

all the others from the world outside;

I cannot enter,

cannot be the one to bring contagion

to this nursery of ancients.

Later a nurse passes you her phone

so we can try a video call;

my tiny image on the screen bewilders you.

You turn your head away, look at the nurse

then ask the usual question,

Is she coming now to take me home?

We are lucky to live in Dorset. Thorncombe Woods (where Thomas Hardy’s childhood home is located) is very close to where I live and was a popular outing with our sons when they were small. They had particular locations and activities they enjoyed, all rather idiosyncratic but very joyful. I don’t think the poem needs any more context than the fact that it is a memory of a time in my life and theirs. Being their mother is better than anything else I could ever imagine. Happy Mother’s Day.

A Communion With Nature

To the woods, they say, these sons of mine,

aged nine and seven.

We have been before, once

even at night to walk in darkness

with only the moon and the thrill of

our beating hearts for company.

Sometimes I am tempted to give them a

breadcrumb trail, but I think they know

the way home though if it should happen

that they did not and got distracted,

birds might eat the bread.

My heart…my heart at the thought of it.

The pits, they shout and set off running.

It is a ritual they have, communing not so much

with nature as with the spirits of young men

who scrambled up steep sided trenches into war.

They race each other up the slopes,

I scramble and they haul me up the final yards.

Oh, the wild laughter.

My heart…my heart  at the sound of it.

The thread of molecules between us

pulls me after their young legs, the beauty of

knees marked by dirt and algae.

There is a fallen beech tree,

a swallet hole casualty.

The earth between its roots is useful

weaponry, clumps hard as metal;

it is for these they have come.

Chalk and clay grenades are flung

at tree trunk targets, or at the boulder

we are always surprised to find there,

standing sentinel between the heathland

and the wood.

The plosive sound of shattering earth

as the mark is hit matched by the huff and

whoop of their delight. They dance.

The wild laughter.

My heart…my heart at the sight of it.

I am recovering from a bout of flu so maybe I am more emotional than usual but I have found myself sifting through the many photographs I have from a visit we made to Iran back in 2016. Some of you will also have been to this amazing country. We arrived at the start of the Nowruz holiday, which is the Zoroastrian New Year. Zoroastrianism is, I think, one of the world’s oldest monotheistic religions. Its motto is Good Thoughts. Good Words. Good Deeds. I reckon that’s a motto we could all get behind right now.

So here are a couple of photos and a few poems for you. The first poem is one I originally wrote as a much longer piece in response to reports of attacks on Palestinian homes in the occupied territories but truthfully this could be Gaza, Ukraine, Iran, Israel. Whoever they are, what is happening to them breaks my heart.

The State Of Things

Our world is over he says/  walking over the rubble/  walking

over what used to be olive trees/ and he gestures with his hand/

to where might be / the most instructive place to look/  inviting

your eyes to see whatever remains of his old life/   whatever is

still standing/  though in truth/  there is nothing/

You might recall that a couple of years ago a video of woman singing in the atrium of the mosque in Isfahan went viral. Women are not, I believe, allowed to sing there. In the video as the security detail approaches her, she holds up her hand to rebuff them and manages to finish her song. Brave, beautiful and full of faith.

She Sings In The Mosque At Isfahan

It is a thing of beauty.

Blue tiled facade mirrors the

loveliness of heaven,

proclaims the ninety-nine names

of God:

the most sacred

the merciful

the first

the last

the most loving

the embodiment of peace.

The stone floor of the atrium

is worn by centuries of feet;

it is the colour of the desert,

the colour of honeycomb

the colour of halva,

of caramel -

the sweetness of faith.

There stands a woman,

veiled and clothed

in the silence of a law

insensible to joy,

a single woman

becomes in that moment

all women

in her courage and her love

when she steps out

from the silence and

sings

in praise of her creator

sings

in her courage and her love

a single voice

offered as a gift to

the first

the last

the most sacred

the merciful

the most loving

the embodiment of peace.

And finally, because it mentions the poet Hafez and because you are of course poetry enthusiasts, a poem I wrote during my trip. Hold in the Light all those who live under the shadow of war. Remember the motto.

Nowruz in Shiraz

The morning air is laced with

the smell of dill and fenugreek;

faces bright with celebration,

pansies in playful crowds

nod in the breeze.

We sit on the steps of

the tomb of Hafez,

our arms full of calendula

and orange blossom

(burnt-gold petals to heal

the hurts of winter, and

sensuous white for love.)

Yesterday, in between helping my husband to Guerilla plant a few trees, I rummaged through those blank documents. Did I find a masterpiece ? Nah, but I did find some interesting things that I had entirely forgotten and that might in fact be worthy of sharing.

Here’s the first one. Read it and then I will explain how it came to be.

Names my parents gave me

I was

Accident,

product of a mishap in their

immaculate love-making.

Later I was named

Mistake,

sobering lesson in

the consequences

of a lapse of judgement.

Then I was

Alien,

Extraterrestrial,

my other-worldliness

an explanation for our differences.

I became

Dreamer,

Head-in-the-clouds,

too much a

Thinker,

spent time imagining

that other planet

they said I came from,

where I was

Daughter,

Beloved.

Many, many years ago, I tried to create a collection of poems that explored the influence of my childhood and my parents on the person I am today. Some of those poems became part of my last book, A Long Way Down but many didn’t. The poem Names My Parents Gave Me is one of those. It was eventually published by the much missed Dreich journal.

Then I found this one

Argument

Your fingers, greasy with deceit,

cannot hold onto me;

I slip through them

like an empty glass,

shatter on the kitchen floor.

Bits of me -

needle-sharp

jagged, razor-edged

jigsaw pieces -

splinter

across the room

where you leave them:

far too dangerous

to pick up and

you

might cut yourself.

I remember being pleased this at the time but nobody shared my enthusiasm. Maybe you might enjoy it. I hope so.

I can’t say that the little towns of Canada are beautiful, frankly they all bear a marked resemblance to trading estates with housing estates circling the perimeter. Nothing much is old in the way European towns are old. However, where my son lives I note the friendliness and the sense of community. I notice that the place is clean, no litter, and that there is a pride in civic spaces. But the thing about Canada which captivates is its landscape and that big sky. I know it isn’t always blue but when it is that blue goes on and on and is richer than any blue sky anywhere. I love the emptiness and the way it emphatically puts humanity in its place.

Here in Dorset it has rained all week. Thick, relentless pouring; my garden is like mud. I want to be in Canada again,  take the long walk to the wonderful Found Bookshop, to have coffee there, to go and have brunch at Sunny Side Up. I want the cold. I want the sky.

So…a couple of Canada inspired poems for you today. The first one is about visiting Calgary and taking the elevator on the Tower. I wrote this after our first visit a couple of years ago. We were very jet-lagged and very country bumpkin about traffic!

Jet-Lagged In Calgary

Walk

       don’t walk

lights    blink

red -green- red

the road as wide as

an ocean

        red -green -red

Too loud   too busy

I am

afraid  but

the green light

blinks

walk don’t

walk

don’t stop

We stumble into the lobby

the elevator reassures

its calm  professional voice tells us

door closing, lift

going up.

it seems to know my heart is beating

crazy- fast after the business of

crossing the road

We go up   right to the top of the tower

the doors open

the whole of Calgary   the

Rocky Mountains    and a vast blueness of sky

are waiting for us

      Hi  Canada says   take a breath

The final poem is a mashup of experiences from this latest trip. Let me know if you like ‘em.

Siren Song

Ice on the Bow River

begins to bloom

    delicate clusters

crystal    

on   the surface of

the water

they gather together

become   a soft compact    

light and opaque as lemon sorbet

     solidifies slowly until

the river becomes still   

seems to hold itself

in suspended animation

soon   

after the days of clear skies   

after the bone -splintering cold

of nights

    the river sings

the ice moaning   and popping

     and humming

with the expansion

     and contraction

of winter lungs

it cajoles   calls us   hints

that we might walk upon it

    admire its transformation

underneath the beauty

that  seeming stillness

  the Bow River    slow    

sinuous

continues to flow

How to cope with January after the excitement of walking on frozen lakes, hiking and seeing the paw prints of cougars in the snow, dabbling my fingers in an inlet of the Pacific Ocean and getting to spend a week with my Canadian son? Do I mention the Aurora Borealis? Saw them too. January is not generally a good month for me but this trip was amazing and I managed a bit of writing. I have managed to hone the poem I began in my last Substack post and have written another. My solution to the January blues turns out to be poetry.

This morning my stanza group met. It was lovely to see everyone again; the poems were diverse and excellent and some touched upon tide as about moving forwards, making the most of time and life. We also looked at something by a FAMOUS poet, not just our own stuff and discussed other work we had read. Poetry, writing it, listening to it, discussing it and sharing it seems to be an effective talisman against the January blues. Here’s a poem from me written in an attempt to move forward into Spring. Hope it acts as a talisman for you.

The feet of little egrets

are a talisman against

winter

These are the hard yards:

interminable dark mornings,

body holding itself like a clenched fist

against the cold.

And, God, oh God, the rain!

It is a torment, cruel as pressing

your bare face against pins.

The garden, in its seasonal abandonment,

is sodden earth, a time of grey and yellow

withered things, muddy paths

of slippery brown.

We put on boots, waterproofs,

determine to brave the state of things

and walk across the water meadows.

There will be little egrets

wading on golden feet along the bank,

draped like white handkerchiefs

on the bare boughs of the willow trees.

It’s four pm local time and I am high above the Rockies. Truthfully, there is probably less snow on them than there would have been twenty years ago. That makes me sad but nevertheless their magnificence is breath-taking. I am on my way to Calgary from Vancouver to stay with my Canadian son. Vancouver was a great place for a short visit and for helping us to feel that we are still capable of having an adventure on our own but I am so excited to see my firstborn again.

We walked about 20 miles over two days as well as taking one of the colourful water buses to Grenville Island. We walked around Stanley Park, admired the totem poles, got mixed up with a film crew at the Vancouver Museum and dabbled our fingers in the Pacific.

Before we left for the airport we visited the Art Gallery. There was a really impressive exhibition of indigenous art. It was called We Who Have Known Tides. There was an invitation to write a poem in response. There wasn’t time for me to sit and write then - I had a plane to catch so I wrote on the plane instead. Obviously it’s just a first draft and I have tried to draw on my experience over the few days spent in this great city.

We Who Have Known Tides

The ebb and the flood of tides

like blood and heartbeat

red cedars tower

their branches like arms

almost open

aspens

pale- trunked and slender

stand in the winter sun like

the whispering ghosts of trees

ravens on the shore

blood and heartbeat

bivalves shells broken open

scattered

their meaty treasures consumed

mist

sometimes a shroud    sometimes

a comfort blanket to wrap the day in

blood and heartbeat

red cedars

the power of tides

blue above

blue below

beyond the edge of the bay

whales sing

My other sister and I visited her in the summer and I wrote this poem for her. Dementia is a hard and strange disease but I was struck then by how happy she was. She spent her days drifting from lounge to lounge looking for an audience to sing to. She had an amazing voice which was strong to the end. A real diva. It was moving to hear.

We Visit Our Sister In Her Care Home

She does not know our names,

has lost her memory of the family face -

the cheekbones, our thick and wiry hair.

She welcomes our embraces though,

returns the hugs.

She has become a bird,

her past solidity gone.

Her smile is broad now, heartfelt;

the bitterness that used to pull

the lines around her mouth has become

sweet.

She has forgotten the story of her life.

We try to tell it to her.

She does not listen, but offers us instead

a song.

Tina was the sister who saved me. When I was little she was, to all intents and purposes my mother, comforting me, reading to me, making doll’s clothes for my favourite doll. She left to marry when I was 6. Later, when my pHD funding fell through and I fell apart she brought me to Dorset. I never left. If she hadn’t shown me that kindness I wouldn’t have met my husband and although I might have had children with someone else, they would not of course have been my gorgeous sons. I would have had a completely different life.

So this post is my thank you to my sister. I wrote the second poem after saying goodbye. It’s not polished but it is what it is. It is a privilege to be able to sit with someone for a while as they leave the world.

Saying Goodbye

She is, already,

a momento mori of herself,

mouth open, eyes closed,

bones visible beneath the skin.

Her arms are so thin now!

I watch the effortful movement

of her diaphragm,

count the seconds

between breaths;

understand

this is her final scene;

there will be no encore.

The Woodpecker Sends Out A Message

This

is the utter winter of a field

starve-acre of chalk and flint in

equal measure.

There are brown and yellow tattered shoots,

straggled lines that came too late,

sprouted after the harvest cut

full of misplaced hope,

an irrational faith in September’s

continuing warmth.

The footpath across is bare,

compacted by the trudge of feet

determined

to walk into Spring and

its green stems of wheat.

From the stand of trees

on the southern edge

  a woodpecker

taps out a fanfare for

the approaching equinox.

I did a webinar a few days ago on the use of symbol in poetry. Afterwards I found myself thinking about The Valley of Stones and a walk we did with our son and his partner after the funeral of my mother. Today is the anniversary of her death so she is on my mind. Her funeral was one of those painful socially distanced occasions. Our son had to stay in a hotel and strictly speaking wasn’t supposed to enter our house. We kept outside as much as we could but the funeral was at the start of January.  Anyway, the thinking turned into a poem so I am pairing it with another poem that also features that son and a New Year’s Day walk to the stone circle not far from the Valley of The Stones . It’s one of the poems from my collection Chalk Stories.  Both walks were full of symbolism for me. I hope you enjoy them and find symbols in them that speak to you.

Time and Weather

After the socially distanced funeral,

we walked the Valley of Stones.

Sarcen stones, lattices of crystal quartz and

sandstone silica, survivors of time and weather,

we followed their train, a path left by an ancient river,

a bouldered thread that joined us, viscerally to the past.

On top of the ridge sheep watched our progress;

stood motionless as living stones; cast sharp shadows.

We walked. Searched for the polissoir, imagined that

ancient industry, the smoothing, the polishing.

Almost at the gate, we ran, keen to be absolved of so much

history; more life than we were capable of imagining just then.

Our milky clouds of breath dissipated in the wintery air,

testament to the cold and to how hard we had tried.

New Year’s Day Walk to The Stone Circle

First morning of a new millennium,

we walk.

The sky is low to the ground,

wet and grey, it obscures everything.

We make our way to the place of the stones,

experience the thrill of their emergence

little by little,

out of the mist.

They stand in a circle, their backs to us,

backs to the world;

for centuries now they have had other business,

no longer interested in what we do.

We come to a halt, stand at the edge

await admittance.

Will they give it, open the gate between

this moment and the past?

My younger son, a single decade old,

steps forward, reaches out,

places his palm against the nearest stone,

begins to sing, and his song is ancient, wordless.

If you are a regular reader of my posts on substack you will know that I have just had a pamphlet published of poems which explore the life of my father and how his career as a soldier affected us, his family. You might also have spotted poems about my sons, my Mutti, my grandson. It would perhaps be reasonable to assume therefore that the principal thing that sparks a poem in me is emotion. I don’t think that is actually the case. I think my most successful pieces are those where something has caught my attention and hung around, insisting that I pay attention to it, do a bit of research, talk to people. The emotional resonance tends to come later.

Probably I am not explaining this very well so let’s take one particular poem and maybe I can bring some clarity. Poem first:

The Unknown Political Prisoner Reflects

Tribute Head II, bronze, Elisabeth Frink, 1977 Dorset Museum

I live too much inside my own head;

it is the only place left to me

where the dark is kind and light

is not an instrument of torture.

In my head is a whole world:

the way it feels

to hold an infant as she sleeps,

head nestled in the hollow of my neck,

the memory of  a lover’s mouth on mine,

hungry yet restrained,

grazing on the meadow of my skin.

Today I sit in the square of sunlight,

note its warmth, even on this winter morning,

the glass and the walls keep out the wind.

I imagine the sound of a stream,

think I am home again,

the whole day ahead of me.

I pretend sleep between linen sheets,

pretend permission to sing

or not to sing

without fear of consequence.

This poem comes from my pamphlet, Transformations, published by Hedgehog Press.  All of the poems in it are responses to different pieces of art by Elisabeth Frink. She lived in Dorset and her work is challenging, compassionate and, I would say,  deeply political. None of the poems are descriptive in terms of the artwork and most of them have a first person persona, like the poem above.  Frink was a supporter of Amnesty International and this poem is a response to one of her tribute heads sculptures. This one is to be found in my local museum. It interested me. I found myself reading beyond the display notes, began to explore how with these pieces, Frink herself was exploring what it meant to be a prisoner of conscience and what an oppressor can- and more importantly- cannot take from you. I asked myself the what, how, why questions. I was interested in how these tribute heads linked to her goggle head pieces and the soldier’s heads pieces. The sculpture was an invitation to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Whose shoes?

Turns out the shoes belonged to Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe. How come?

At the time I was writing this poem, Nazanin’s husband was on hunger strike outside the Foreign Office. I had kept track of their story because I had been in Iran at the time of her arrest and imprisonment. We came home about three days after, though what had happened to her was not made public then. ( If you don’t know her story, the BBC has just done an excellent series about her - do take a look.)

Over the years I signed petitions of support (as one does) and thought about her family and the struggle they had to be heard. The more I thought about the facts the more emotionally involved my writing became.

I am on a course of steroids at the moment, trying to see off a chest infection. They disrupt sleep so much of this was written in the wee small hours. As I wrote it occurred to me that when I write it’s a bit like playing with Lego bricks: I fiddle about with the what, how, why bricks, make a ‘thing’, do more fiddling until it resembles something my heart recognises. Job done.

Thank you if you made it this far. Here’s a poem I wrote on that Iranian trip.

Nowruz in Shiraz

The morning air is laced with

the smell of dill and fenugreek;

faces bright with celebration,

pansies in playful crowds

nod in the breeze.

We sit on the steps of

the tomb of Hafez,

our arms full of calendula

and orange blossom

(burnt-gold petals to heal

the hurts of winter, and

sensuous white for love.)

Here’s a poem for that before the rest of the post:

Skin

I have begun to inspect

the edges of myself,

I notice that I bruise more easily

than when I was young.

I catalogue this,

and the creases just beginning

to be visible around my mouth.

I think of my mother’s skin

withered, transparent,

fragile as tissue paper;

the slightest move tears it,

lets mortality in.

The day after my Mutti’s birthday was the birthday of my friend Roger and he died just over a year ago. He was a beautiful person, clever and kind. November is also the anniversary of the death of my friend Peter. I met him at the same party where I met my husband. Peter was extraordinary, one of life’s philosophers and full of mischief. He was godfather to our elder son. We miss him still.

So the poems in this post address mortality and loss but also, I hope, some fortification for the journey into the dark we will all make. That fortification is, of course, love.

Poem for Roger

In my mind’s eye

     my friend

his welcoming smile     

      the way he would unfold

impossibly long legs

(always arranged left over right)

      draw himself up     

out of the armchair in which he had

nested

to offer his embrace

A man who loved words    

       music    a man   who knew

       the utter importance of being kind

I visit his grave     

greet    his memory     

        imagine the smile

the hug     

I spend a moment    then walk away

      leave him in the earth to dream

the embroidered cloths of heaven

on a Bob Dylan kind of day

A Poem for Peter, two years dead

For a moment,

I thought it was you - or else

one of those effigies of venerable

Plantagenets come to life.

Long slender fingers

smoothed down your beard  ( his beard )

and  your eyes- (his eyes )

blue as the Madonna’s robe

returned, enquiringly,

my stare.

In many ways my memories of lockdown are good. The weather was glorious. I was able to go on long runs and illegally long walks, the water meadows, woods and hills being a mere jink through the churchyard away. There were other anxieties however.

The biggest of those concerned my sons. They are grownups, living a long way away but my fear that they might catch Covid and death was very real. I couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to hold them or kiss them any time soon. The thought was truly awful.

Then there was my husband who, as a recent chemotherapy patient, was classed as clinically vulnerable. How to shop? How to stay safe? As lockdown lifted this anxiety came more to the fore as it was hard to know what was safe and what wasn’t. The relief when the vaccines finally arrived was tremendous.

Finally there was Mutti, my mother. Aged 97 and suffering from dementia, window visits were hard. Even harder were the visits in the specially erected gazebo during the summer of 2020 because of the keep your distance rule. No hugs, no kisses- she found that immensely distressing. Then there was the Christmas lockdown and a mere three weeks after her 98th birthday she slipped away and I and my sisters each had what was called an end of life visit. We weren’t allowed to sit with her until she died, her grandsons weren’t allowed to say goodbye either. I had tried so hard to do the best for her over her final few years. When more restrictions were brought in during the autumn of 2020, limiting to two the total number of family members allowed visits to a care home I wrote to our Conservative MP asking if he could help because Mutti had three daughters and we all lived in the same town. How was I supposed to tell one of my siblings that they were no longer able to visit our mother? Given I was the person with legal responsibilities for Mutti, I could have ceded my access but if something happened that might need signatures or whatever, that would have been problematic. My MP told be that the rules were there for a reason and I just had to accept it.

And that brings me back to Boris Johnson and his wretched government. They had a very busy time in December 2020. The day before my mother died the Conservative Party HQ had, well, a party. On the day Mutti died, the guys at Downing Street had a jolly Christmas quiz. There were a number of other gatherings. The result of this is when it comes to this particular jolly band of people forgiveness is out of the question and I will never ever forget.

Obviously, there’s a poem Here:

Terms and Conditions Apply

I drive the mile to the care home/wait/

in the airlock of the vestibule/wait/

for the permission to come in/am required/

to provide a valid /reason

Access may be approved in the case of:

• physician providing medical care

• delivery of goods

• essential service provider

• patient end of life visit

Other reasons for requesting access are likely to be deemed invalid at this time

I indicate/my valid reason/it is accepted/ death/

its anticipation/are valid reasons for access/

You have requested and been approved for an end of life visit.

Please read and sign the terms and conditions below.

I understand that:

• as an immediate family member I am allowed one visit

• the visit may last up to one hour

• the hour cannot be subdivided into shorter visits

• Visits must be undertaken in full PPE

I sign/take /the proffered garments/

from the hatch/remove my face mask/

put on another/ pull a plastic apron/over my head/

fasten the ties around my waist/

I have prepared for this/ the clothes I am wearing now/

will have a hot wash later/ 60 degrees C/

I put on blue latex gloves/a full-face visor/

am deemed ready/ushered into where/my mother/

prepares herself/for death / quietly/ alone/

her eyes are closed/ mouth open/ her lips move /

in some silent/conversation/ I don’t know with whom/

I watch her breathe/ count the seconds/ between each

breath/ tell her how well she’s done/to live this long/

and still/be hungry for just another hour/ tell her /

that if she wants to/it’s fine to let go/ she can/

I lift my visor/ pull down my mask and/kiss her forehead/

which is not/strictly speaking/ allowed/ I no longer care/

for the terms and conditions/ and anyway/time is up/

November progresses - as it does, thank goodness. There will soon be the strangeness of our first Christmas alone since 1983 but after that it will be January. We have booked our flights to Canada, a few days in Vancouver and then to Calgary and some precious time with our older son.

I am excited about making a winter visit this time and hope that the Aurora Borealis will grace me with an appearance. I know there’s been a lot of amazing activity just recently but fingers crossed. I hope there’s decent snow for snow shoeing and a trip on the gondola at Banff, but mostly I just hope for a lovely time with the boy. He’s happy there, has just completed his mountain and wilderness rescue training. I am thankful that he’s settled but I miss him.

I have been having a bit of a fallow time in terms of writing just lately but this last week two poems have emerged. One I am holding onto for a little while in case a journal might want to publish it, but the other one I am giving to you. Here it is:

The Northern Lights Fill The Skies Over Alberta

And My Son Tries To Share The Moment With Me

The Aurora Borealis

     is having a moment

media feeds of excited

posts    from people

proclaiming they have

been blessed

to observe those luminous

transparencies

of green and purple silk

rippling across the night sky

I send you a text

asking if you have seen

this spectacle

Not yet   you say and hope

they would be there again

at bedtime

And I think how the night

for which you wait

is already here for me

I wake next day to an inbox

full of your photographs

The Northern Lights

     shot from the decking in

your garden     

beauty    illuminating

a moment which for you

is now

already yesterday for me

    beauty hanging in your sky

four thousand miles ago