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A Woodland Ensemble - Psithurism of the Trees.

The plane tree
With paper-like rustle
Elephant patches
And scaly trunk.

Memories
And mellow whispers
Of a darkest tempest
Dropping the bass.

Constable elms
Whispering, suckering saplings
Converting
To beetle runs beneath.

Ash-
With minstrel keys
playing harmonies
masking sinister die back.

Crataegus thickets
The scratchy
rasping may
catch you quick.

Whispering pines
Bend forwards
Reaching skywards
Splintering the silence.

Mother beech
With spaltered
Marks waltzing
And humoresque streaks.

Holly reigns in
Summer solstice
Days shorten
And poco a poco winter returns.

King of the woods
Ships hold
Forte and
Table fast.

Eric

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Change

As  I stand with my feet in the ocean, and look at the setting sun, I think of how many me's, have stood in how many seas, but always stared at the same one. A snapshot of scenes in the movie of me, at various times of my being. A new version of me every single time; the same star I'm always seeing. It fills me with curious wonder, for the places that I may go; And the life that has yet to happen, and the things I have yet to know. Jess

Ballinasloe Station

Flood plains replenished and diminished, a deceiving here-and-there fluidity and the flat statement of stubborn water. Occasionally trackside trees are stranded, littered in swirling pools that soundlessly disappear. On the horizon, tall walls and radio mast mark the far-off asylum neatly screened with its avenue of trees. The people are hidden beyond the town, their tears reaching as far as the railway lines. The train navigates the flood’s edge like logic escaping emotion, trim engineering escaping danger, holding firmly onto the rails. (Ballinasloe was a major mental home in County Galway) Pat Jourdan

Birch Tree

White bark shedding tissued layers And stripes across the brown earth deep leaf littered floor. Diamond shaped fissures Twigs with small dark warts Pointing to the sky. Light green Tooth-edged leaves Swinging to the wind. Jane  

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Flowing alongside water's edge An overflow of activity And constricted Jumbled thoughts. Broken passages and swollen memories of channelled energies And intermittent promises. Hungry vines Competing for light Succumbed to the fragility of life. Awash with echoed considerations Downstream they float Towards a bareness. Dynamic vitality Sparkling from the frontier Invigorated to the final source. Daniel  

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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

So Much Yellow

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That Coastal Feeling

The coast revitalises My lost energies Downtrodden to the sand Amplified by the wind. Respects returns Armoured by the origin Enlivened by the presence Of drifting dunes. The shoreline beckons With drifting sentiments Forgotten and vast reflections Rendered unbroken. Jeremy

Ash Scar

Grey, lofty, sombre ash Fissured cracks monumental, fraxious ash. Porosity bedded in stone, with far receptive views to craggy tableland plateau. Deaths’ shadows brush a mysterious and scarred graveyard. Amplified crackles of pavements of gloomy fissures, dissolved joints. Bedding planes rubble underfoot, crunch on the broken ridge, speared and bony ash deaths’ whispers a skeletal calling. Stephanie

Torn Apart

Afterwards it was a long process, two years rolled into ten, of letting go, letting it out. She stumbled through days, drank warmed milk or camomile, paced all night. She worked; walked in the green; bathed in geranium and rose oil hot baths; and only talked to those friends who made her laugh. No sugar, no wine, went vegan, but tears, so much wetness like the churning of rainwater tumbling into a ravine frothing, drowning she fought for breath. She tried counting her blessings. She put on the lost smile, pretended. She made consciously positive statements about herself, about others. No-one knew. She went to happy places, spent time with good people. She allowed the tears, gushing taps, to drench at night kissing her lips with salt, with stinging, with coldness. Sometimes, now, even after all these years words needle her memory, but that is the stitching pulling, snagging. Soon there will only be a scar. No getting over it. Just a mend to staunch the bleeding. Sue Foster

The Sadness of Plastic

I ha ve known the inexorable sadness of litter on countryside walks thrown along hedgerows of gleaming berries out of place but in near sight. The misery of mucky polystyrene food boxes amongst marsh marigolds and achillea flung from cars and wrappers of sandwiches hinged like dentures to snap shut over hungry hedgehogs or thirsty toads. ‘M’ or ‘Starbucks’ cups with unnecessary plastic lids harmful havens of no return for tiny creatures. The selfish scattering of chocolate covers torn, sweet papers – all plastic – strewn and cigarette butts, heeled into verges of daisies, buttercups and dandelions to blow about in breezes or to be caught under hedges, in ditches, and amongst the wild flowers left by the Council for bees and butterflies who now do battle with all this human debris. Here lies the detritus of greed, the refuse of recalcitrant rebels who refuse to listen to the pleas in the news, online, in social media, at school – everywhere – about rubbish and pollution, global warming ...