Skip to main content

Leper Chapel - Mosaics of Time

Mudstone mosaics and jumbled fractures -
an uneven puzzle waiting;
holy stone with leper marks,
dotted and spotted black.

Ever expanding lichen rings
with double oil-spotted rainbow;
angular rust-like stains
Testing the presence of time.

Clenched into cracks
Of weathered rocks and broken messages;
scarlet snapdragons
trailing their cardinal stems.

Damp buttress of moss clinging,
Festooning the flint;
ink spots, stone measles,
proud thistle commanding the base.

Random yet structured,
closely inter-twined cobwebs
Fastened carefully
to parched and pocketed stones.

Chaotic yet ordered
toad-like grotesque within;
marking essences of
devoted and hidden faces.

Picture flints grinning
their caramel coffee smiles
amongst Anglian crags,
embracing their forgotten cousins.

Stephanie

To see the inspiration for this poem and hear it being narrated at the remains of the Leper Chapel, Dunwich, visit this page from our Chronicles of Greyfriars project website.

Currently Popular Poems:

Dunwich

Dunwich, once second to London its bells still ring far out to sea when I was young I used to find skulls, ribs and femurs scattered down its cliffs, all now buried in my heart John

Hawk Moth

Hawk moth Waiting alone Tenderness revealed, In the Shadow of the Friary. Cushioned wind Stifling air Song thrush Beckons the Spirit of the summer. Afloat with thoughts Memories of Parched earth and forgotten Spheres. Suzanne

Alive

All of a sudden, I am awake and the sea is licking round my feet. A wall of muddy grey fringed with white assaults my mind and spirit jostling me from sleep. A wave has broken. I am alive. Felix stands on the sea’s edge; hardly a split second’s pause before he is stumbling forward, fearless into the waves, embracing the ocean, saying yes, yes I will, yes to his new friend. I have been sleep-walking, a spectator, unable to grasp this new role, the forgotten skills of grand-parenting lost in the wreckage that is Covid. Standing bemused in playgrounds, waiting for the light to dawn. Suddenly, I am woken by the waves, remembering what life consists of, remembering how to say yes, remembering how to say no, remembering what makes me who I am. Child of the sea. Julia Duke

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  

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

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

River Stour Haiku

Wandering the bend, Bending around the wonder Meander reveals. Freda

Becalmed

I can no longer dot the i’s, nor cross the t’s. A pale haze, like Sunday afternoons, pleasant after a glass of wine too many, drifts across my day. I am at peace. I find myself disposed to acquiesce, content to live life at this gentle pace, content, it seems, with how life’s focus, now diminished, takes on the softened blur of evening light. Something sharp is lost. But the time for mourning it is done. The wind that swelled the sails has dropped, the tide recedes, the fierceness of the sun is quenched, leaving the sunshine’s golden glow that speaks the lateness of the hour. A taste of salt upon my lips - no call for worry or regrets - a bitter-sweet recall of what has gone. Julia Duke