THE PROPHET AT MY ELBOW

Stuck at home on a beautiful day, sun shining, breeze blowing, I yearn
to be out – out – out- after a week of enforced staying-in! So here’s
a poem I wrote years ago which takes me right back to that lovely
place.
We have a national park close to us which is a thing of beauty and
which contains such loveliness, you have to make yourself go home.
The park is on old ground and standing on it, there is that eternal
feeling of all that has gone before and all that will come in the future.
This park seems to include the sky as part of its sheer loveliness.

THE PROPHET AT MY ELBOW

Early Winter, and the geese are sailing
In a long straight line down the river,
Not knowing where they are going
But going, anyway,
Turning at the curve then coming back.
By their side, the wind is puffing up
Little drops of sunny water.

And as if the prophet was standing by me,
I became aware of the immense blue vault of the heavens.
Through the light of day, saw the hidden night,
With one star blazing brighter than all the others.

My feet were firm on solid ground,
Yet beneath them, I saw mountains biding their time,
Deserts flowering, and lights of cities not yet built all shining,
And the prophet, standing at my elbow, whispered,
‘Here is loveliness beyond all telling.’

Mid-winter, and the geese are sailing
In a long straight line down the river.
Their angry little eyes a snapping song of reluctant praise
To the love that made them.
And the prophet, standing at my elbow, whispered
Of the steadfast love and hope that lives in all creation.

SILENT MOVIES

I have always dreamt and some of my dreams strike
into my heart with the very first pictures which show me
where I am because from here, I know exactly what is
going to happen. Is that a bus stop with a bus rolling by,
ignoring the outstretched hand of a person wanting to get on?
Why yes it is! And that person is me. This is the start of
a dream that always frightens me because I have to walk
home in deep darkness and untold terrors fall upon me on
that journey.

SILENT MOVIES

Little children
Lying quietly in their beds,
Dreaming.
Flushed faces,
Closed eyes
Flickering like old silent movies,

Shadows
Of hidden worlds,
Of unknown people
Demanding attention.

All we can do, watching,
Is hope that all is well
In these places we cannot enter.
That each child will be safe
Until they awaken.

That every traveller
On the high plains
Of hesitant fear and aloneness
Will find the keys
Of this unknown kingdom
And retreating,
Lock the doors tight
Behind them.

Dropping the keys
Into deep water.

I KNOW YOUR FACE

I wrote this poem many years ago and sold it to a national magazine. However,
I didn’t know when it was being published but, one day, at a Railway station, at
the start of a long journey, I bought a copy of this magazine, opened it, and there
was the poem! I spent the whole of that journey reading the print off the page.

I KNOW YOUR FACE

I know your face as I know my own,
And yet, one odd glance
Surprised your outside face looking in
At me.
Odd. I thought I knew you well,
Yet there you were. A stranger.

So many years have gone by since we met
And loved by firelight.
I remember asking what you were thinking
about,
And listening.
Since then, it can’t be that I haven’t listened.
Just never asked again.

THE OLD STATION WALL

Longing to go away and hating to walk past the
railway station instead of going in and booking a seat
on a train – any train to almost anywhere – I thought of
the time I was on the train in this poem. It was a sunny morning and
great fingers of sunshine swept the old dark shadows of
the station away. Stations and trains and total devotion.

THE OLD STATION WALL

That great black wall
Towering over the train
Standing at the station,

Grows little green ferns
In the cracks between bricks,

Sends tiny yellow flowers
Bursting out of the old tar and dust,
So full of life and hope,

Their tiny petals tickle
The darkness with sunshine.

DANGEROUS HARBOUR

We go to the north of Scotland for our holidays and particularly do we like the
sea coast . On one visit, we were lucky enough to be there when a storm blew up.
It was so awe inspiring, the power of the sea and the elements. I didn’t feel quite so
lucky when we came out of shelter and made a run for it to quieter places. You think
of the same power pushing a flower through rock hard earth but we can’t see that.
As I’m writing this, the moon is shining from a dark blue sky lighting up the world.

DANGEROUS HARBOUR

As we stand here,
On the edge of the world,
The wet streets peeling away
From the tiny harbour,
The sea, in a fit of spite,
Swirls and tumbles
Onto the stony shingle,
Rattling the shells
From one bony ridge to another,
Hissing its peevish laughter
At the moonbeams dancing uneasily
Down this stretch of wild water.

Until, in a fury of authority,
The moon calls all to order.
Combing the white frilled water
Into its thin silver fingers,
Braiding light into the aching darkness,
Its own face darkening as it considers
The water’s bold and fierce behaviour.

Now look what’s happened!
The moon has turned her back
On the tiny, frozen harbour,
Battered by the shell hung water,
Smashing foam flowers
Onto the old stone causeway,
Onto our icy, hasty shoulders,
As we run helter-skelter for safety
To a deep and far away doorway.

Now the sly and sliding waters
Try to tumble us off our frozen feet,
Try and pull us into the rolling sea
To be another bony shell in the making.

	Myrela Sarajevo on THE ARTIST
	Liz on THE MOON COMPLAINS
	Schnark on NO-ONE VISITS US, ANYMORE…
	camilla wells paynte… on PAGAN WEDDING
	camilla wells paynte… on LENNY DANCER