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Ordinary Miracle

gratitude for the toothpaste
pleasure at my soft mattress
joy of the first sip of tea
delight as my cat stretches

to remember the miracle
of ordinary things
unhook the small mind
move

into the space
where
miracles are happening
each second

my body is breathing me
in, out, every moment
in, out
in

Sarah Caddick
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So Much Yellow

There’s gorse, of course and sometimes broom, the lichens yellow on the tomb and every churchyard has its fill of lovely yellow daffodils. There’s dandelions and celandine and yellow primrose, I suppose, and fluffy yellow chicks are born and yellow toads from slippery spawn. And green is seen on every lawn, at April’s end the woods turn blue and tulips bloom in pink and red with drooping leaves in every bed but yellow bellows all around: spring’s mating call, a joyful sound. Julia Duke
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Behind Your Smile

Behind your smile, Is a heart that's filled with pain, Behind every gesture There's a walk down memory lane. For yesterday's troubles, Are torments of the soul, It's so hard to be strong, When life takes its toll. With every step that's taken, There's compassion for another, A listening ear always there, Guiding sons, daughters, mothers. Always so much easier, To hold up for a friend, When to go with your feelings, Seems to lead to no end. The whispers locked inside your head, Remind you, you're alive, With pretending and avoiding, You can easily survive. Giving in's not an option, When there are others to care for, So easy to pretend, When there's no help at the door. Depression, like a broken leg , Needs nurturing and healing. Don't treat it any differently, It's normal to have feelings. Out there is the help you need, To help and cope and manage, The troubles burdening your mind, To unload all the baggage. So while right now it seems each ...
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Ravilious Rules

Yesterday’s heat evaporates taking with it the fierce glare of the sun. Yesterday, sunlight glanced off hills, danced on rivers, but I am used to this gentle Welsh spirit that now envelops the landscape, soft green mist that returns to the hills, softening edges, softening mood. Curvaceous, a line of grey green hills etched in waves of leafiness, dark green towering oaks, hedgerows draped with dog roses, flat, rounded clusters of elderflowers, the gracious sweep of the bronzed maple. Tutored by nature’s harmony, my eye picks out the tell-tale signs of human intervention, marks alien pylons astride hilltops. Tall, straight telegraph poles push their way up through trees, geometric road signs warn of hidden dangers, along straight, tarmacked roads. The sign for Maesmawr Farm shouts its rectilinear message, tempting me with luxury lodges. The arrow points straight to them. Even the forestry commission superimposes its orderly rows on nature’s wayward curves. But the rolling hills triumph,...
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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
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The Skylark

A fletched fanfare to the field Pulses upward Ladders the air No regalia for this herald: A flickering tattered grey-brown speck Yet he cascades his song Like a million pieces of silver Glorying the sky Owning the hunkered down, machine-torn hedges, The tilled and tamed expanse beneath Daring the wind, taunting I’m here, he cries, I’m here Awakening the wild joy in our hearts Bone-bred memories of open heath and grassland. Robert Lindsay
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First Wave

Some we lost, for some it was days, for some it simply never went away. Three years of changes, yet no change at all.  It’s like the infection put up a wall. Now 2 million people whose lives have been changed, life plans on hold, p ermanently re-arranged. Anon, For Long Covid Sufferers
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Shingle Beach

Deep Yellow sea poppies With Salted horns Of sickle-shaped pods Grey green lobes Waxy Rosettes Clinging to the shingle And Fragility of life. Thomas
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Through Mist to the End

All alone I stand Nothing but mist As my friend. Waiting for the right feathers to land. To squawk, crow or hoot I’ll be your companion Through the mist to the end. Wilhelm
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Whispered Words

Whispered words of silence Forgotten energies Of the past. Like a recurring dream Restless thoughts Of the now. Spirited voices of the present Elated energies Of the future.   Sally  
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Crinkle Crankle Wall

I love the crinkle-crankle's quirkiness, Its quiet economy and hidden strength, No need for buttresses, for inner stress Holds tight the subtle, undulating length. From East to West, it’s perfectly aligned, So morning sunlight warms the sheltered side, Fruit ripening along espaliered lines, Resisting sea-winds, carried by the tides. Slangemuur the Dutch men called it, engineers, Who drained the marshland, freed alluvial soil, That rich, dense blackness, springing with green spears, Of wheat and barley, from their earthy toil. Strict calculations laboured to create, The Crinkle-Crankle’s seeming-natural shape. Slangemuur*– snakewall. Fiona Clark  
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