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Yew Remember

Yew remember
The flaky times,
The broken branches.
Yew grew so strong and fast.
Yew is not as tough
As yew look.

Yew exude
Attracting berries
Yew absorb
our gases
like thoughts.

How’s life within
your dangling conscious
and pointed needles?
Yew nurtured truth
yet live in pain.

Winter be longer
than yew thought.
But yew
will not be silenced
by others.

Yew draw
A complex pattern.
Aching for light
But yew can be cool,
contented not
to sit in the shade
beneath others.

Yew are alone in this world
No more than the oak
nor beech.
Yew shed
a spirited shadow
As
Yew are a survivor.

Anon.

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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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White Hawthorns

The day speaks of white hawthorn Sundays Long washed out road trips, reluctant relatives waving you off on arrival. Rain from decades passed, a swishing of glimpses. Parents cramped and fretful. Passing through a littered accompaniment of faceless outlines. Stretched out warming children, car sick, scrunch up weathered newspapers. Pungent smells of nostalgia, almost Springs bouncing forward hours. Eager sweet wrappers lunge for half opened windows to adorn the floating blossom clouds of hawthorn bushes, March’s winds step in much like a bone-chilled but amiable hitch hiker. A querulous sibling rolls over, sickening, falls out in a screeching of tires. Tearfully rain-splattered. Another weekend pulled out and pegged up, redolent of adolescences quickly traversed. Mark Ereira-Guyer
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Alder Carr, Crichton

Cold clear water Lurking trout Dogs mercury afloat. Where Crichton Castle Stands the bank. Old Alder cones still black; The trees are still asleep. Willows weep I wash my feet. Moss encrusted veterans fallen to the hillside Amongst blackbirds singing in old ash trees. Wild raspberries Jasper green canes reaching high waiting for summer feathers. Lime kilns and quarried Lonely caves. Sandstone and limestone planes alayered. I walk a mile Through the haar Amongst the dark alder carr. My sandwiches Becoming colder by the minute. I rise up the edges Tottering the line of ancient beech. With broken banks and pocketed anemones. Two muntjac creeping on the sideways track, Watchful of my progress. Manky boots Impress their foot. Bright yellow lichen on old hawthorn,  Jet black ash buds, Grey scaly patches, Lime flower matches. Frothy blackthorn Sloe to emerge, bonnie gill. Magical yet spiny, waiting for its gin. Park primroses clumping their station, Demanding their presence and lithe nat...
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Virus

The sun is shining But lying a fate that awaits for some of us. An insipid virus waits Ready to pounce Unannounced. Some will survive Some will not We do not know if this is our lot. In the meantime The sun is shining Barbara Wright (photo credit: Daniel J. Schwarz via Unsplash )
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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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Lichen a Plenty

Lichen a plenty,  With your crispy and crusty Foliose forms Lichen reveals the Hidden substrate beneath. Ashley
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Voices Unknown

An unknown voice Aside the thought Asked who am I? Replied the force within, “I am all I can feel And reach. “ Daniel
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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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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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