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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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Albatross

Life is a wilderness, A struggle through the weeds, Boggy marshes underneath, Life held in wildflowers, Scattering their seeds. Seeds strewn randomly, Fields of colour so vast, Thoughts murky as puddles, Conquering ideals hopes that last. Meandering through seasons of time, Struggles begin to show through, Ideals and beginnings all mixed up, Summer arrives giving a wonderous view. Seeing a brightness rich in colour fragrant to follow, Thoughts placed into a perspective view, Perhaps today or another tomorrow. A clearing is a footpath journey to succeed, Joyous outcome of happiness, For that a need to believe. Blinded is my kaleidoscope body mind and me, Guiding me into this wilderness, Regain normality as another, To leave this murk of my distress. Reliant I am to those I love, Unleash the colour to those that are dear, Control my inner tiger, Without consequence or fear. Sun bright as fire extinguishers at night, This wilderness a fork in the road, To take the correct route follow a s...
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Woodpecker Squall

The five feathers of Autumn weather Were a woodpecker’s downed chatter Under an Oaks wings And the rain’s prism sang in my lashes Over and over Ring in fast skies September October The beak of the sky Pummelled the wood But I dried it’s staccato why By waving the feathers of my hand Until the spots merged Back to fine weather Then left altogether. Stephen Kirin
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Always with Us

The morning is cold, The sky is black, An emotion called grief, Is on your back. The storm is ferocious, Emotions peek and trough, The boat is disabled, By our indescribable loss. Gradually the storm, Will begin to ease, Giving breath to talk, Reflect and believe. But just round the corner, With just the breeze, The storm returns, You are on your knees. The sea is unpredictable, The sails carry us along, We begin to feel, Our loved one isn’t gone. With love and care, These storms will pass, The boat’s in order, The sails half mast. It’s a long journey, The boat begins to move with grace, It makes you feel relaxed, And puts a smile on your face, We can recall the memories, With all the love in our heart, They will always be with us, We will never be apart.   by Tonya  
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Hidden Behind Plastic Shields and Masks

Hidden behind plastic shields and masks they smile at me but only with their eyes, there is love in each iris, lash and wrinkle wink. Who silently steps in the space between being neither here nor there? He watches her laboured breathing as tubes that had filled her lungs with life are now removed. I’ve breathed in and out without a thought for sixty-seven years but not now, I needed a machine but not anymore. Alone now and strangely calm - this is how it ends, the final cut. He looked at her gravely and slides beside her under covers of night. I feel his presence as a chill - wintery, I’m not dressed for this journey. A lantern held aloft in the forest of firs underfoot pine needles and snow the smell of resin and the crack of footfalls on icy ground. He smiles and I find myself smiling back a new doctor without a mask, weary eyes that have seen this all before and see too much I am weightless as a white feather drifting skyward. Ian Hartley
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Bones on the Shore

We walk the shoreline down in that dark dip at year’s end, while life’s still slumbering. The beach is a graveyard. We clamber, beneath ominous skies, through cathedrals of bones. Beached giants, prone on the sand, gaunt skeletons, arms uplifted, feet still reluctant to leave. In the lifetime of my children, these dinosaurs, these mighty oaks have fallen, their forms sculpted by time and weather, yet even in death they hold such power. They lie, steadfast as ever, awesome, majestic, statuesque, garlanded with gifts from the river: soft green fronds, little crabs, bladder wrack decorating their fingers. For centuries they stood strong, hearing the river’s song: ebb, flow, winter, spring, tide and moon rising, falling, curlew calling, calling. We will walk the shorelines at that bright time of new beginnings, now we are awakening. Jan Armstrong Photo by Daniel Lincoln via Unsplash
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A Way of Life

It’s become a way of life this summer, the canvas bag slung over my shoulder hoping not to need it hoping the sky will stay blue long enough to get a walk by the sea. It’s become a way of life this summer, wearing my green jeans, wearing a matching sweatshirt to keep the wind out, wearing green wherever possible to match my green cagoule in case I need it. It’s becoming a way of life, it’s true, this life of uncertainty which nags at the back of your mind and keeps you constantly looking up the weather on your phone. It’s a way of life, this anxiety which sends me scurrying for help when it mushrooms out of control in the middle of the night. Julia
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Flickering Predictions

An age of drifting forecasts Tempers stabilising the existence A prequel sensation Accessing the conflicts of mind Offset against time. A random schedule. Broadened beyond an overhang Towards sanity An essence of rotations Of flickering predictions and fathoms and reasoning. Dave
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Saharan Breeze on Suffolk Shores

That special summer evening. Whispering Saharan breeze on Suffolk shores. Warmth gently caressing, sensually embracing. Soft silken touch. Tomorrow is Monday. Today is paradise. Let this last forever. Shall we stay? A B&B? Reluctantly, we turn and leave this strangely tropical coast tonight. Bliss has to end. As did our love. That rare heated air will return, and I will cherish its soft warmth. But will intimate love? A warm embrace, a soft caress. Sharing a special summer evening. by Adrian. 
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Nobody Knows- Tribute to a dead acquaintance

Nobody knows Sat alone in the field Seasoned, and twisted corn stalks. Nobody knows my hidden thoughts Reaching the heights, Fortitude amongst thieves. Nobody knows against a backdrop of August heat, an Unplanned lesson. Nobody knows. Graeme
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