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Dunwich Heath Cliff

Beachen sand, coastal gravel
Heave and spew with every wave
Are fixed above my head
Banks of sand, clots of gravel
Two million-years adrift
Are rolling at my feet
Same old, same old
Dunwich Cliff, Dunwich Beach:
The poetry of sediment remains

Tim
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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
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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
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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
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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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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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River Stour Haiku

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