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Greyfriars

If ever there were dragons
they left their passion here
in garnet schist and granite, 
crazy migmatite
of marbled black and white:
hot scramblings of the pluton.

What's left of monks is bony, hard
to see: a grassy field
where horses crop and starlings pop
and bubble natter-songs
of seed and insect, feeding
over buried walls.

Cobble-flocks and boulders
Cluster; mortared stone
reliques tell crustal stories deeper
than our poor humanity.
Churches pass and minsters fall:
the pagan flints remain.

Tim
Poetry Theme(s):

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View From the Window

Nature flourishes; society’s fabric hangs, this spring, by a thread. Green fronds of bamboo peer over our wall and wave at me through the glass. Spreading her palms wide, Fatsia Japonica plays the drama queen. A small fishing craft manoeuvres its way back home to harbour’s safety. The black cormorant with horizontal plumb line flies directly home. Billowing white clouds recall lazy days, laid back, dreaming, on the grass. A small patch of blue parts the clouds high above me, lifting my spirits. Cerulean skies, like a vast ocean without visible limits. Pink, turquoise and grey offer us celestial colour therapy. Irrepressible, waving tamarisk defies winter’s harsh pruning. Copying nature, we wave from our balconies, applauding heroes. Julia Duke
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Wind Rush

With wind rushing through the reeds I close my eyes I feel the breeze on my cheeks and take a deep breath in. I hear the grebe calling across the water. I breathe out deeply; The warm day has brought spring birds whistling from their canopies. I open my eyes I smell the freshness through my nostrils. The swan glides past smoothly, unaware of myself. The comfort of nature surrounds me.  Melanie  
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Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished, a deceiving here-and-there fluidity and the flat statement of stubborn water. Occasionally trackside trees are stranded, littered in swirling pools that soundlessly disappear. On the horizon, tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum neatly screened with its avenue of trees. The people are hidden beyond the town, their tears reaching as far as the railway lines. The train navigates the flood’s edge like logic escaping emotion, trim engineering escaping danger, holding firmly onto the rails. (Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway) Pat Jourdan
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Solitude of Pines

With a frail And uncertain future Breathing in rhythmical pines Calms my thoughts. Solitude I seek Within the forest Amorphous blankets of snow Covering crestfallen waves. Spirited wind Melancholy whispers A tear falls Past traumas relived. Ephemeral bird calls Wispy clouds and frost Revitalises lost energies I no longer feel lost.     Matthew  
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To Shed My Youthful Skin

To Survive Against at the odds of secure authorities And recognised establishments. I shed my youthful skin. I Thrive Against the odds I flourish and prosper Desolate and torn by institutions. The arrogance of the untouchables. Anon.
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Fly me in Feathers

Weighted with weariness worn down by worry I search the skies with longing. Fashion me with feathers float me up high cushion me on your magic carpet and let me ride above clouds. The lark vanishes. Lightness of spirit, more a song than a bird. Clothe me in quills, speed me on soaring wings, lift me above the limits of my chronic fatigue. A seagull floats, gently drifting on air currents in effortless motion. Dress me in down, soft as snow-white geese, yearning for family that call to me like seabirds from across the ocean. Julia Duke
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Collapse is not an option

My own weight on the chair feels firm on firm foundation Collapse is not an option Reflecting on those lines A simple chair gives rise to heartfelt reassurance and collapse is not an option The touch of hand on hand so absent and so longed for but collapse is not an option Reflecting on those lines I sit with vivid memories which touch my heart to singing so collapse is not an option These past months steep my core with deepest contemplation while collapse is not an option Reflecting on those lines I touch these pages fondly My journal holds my feelings Collapse is not an option. Lynne Nesbit
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Sweet Diatoms

Sweet diatoms You make me smile Algal atoms Too small to see But for my eye Peering microscopically Your fiddly frames Of filigree silica Seem big to me Tim  
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