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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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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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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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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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A Mindful Reunion

We meet in silence Clutching blankets brought from home, Holding memories from a year ago When scars were raw, Heads disguised by wigs And tears too salt to weep. I found words difficult then. ‘Body scan’ Was not a mindful exercise But a machine at the end of a corridor. There were places in my body I could not touch with thought. Like chrysalis we scatter the floor Each section of our being Revisited with childlike curiosity, Sensations magnified, the tickle of wool, the press of cotton. A forgotten ache from an ankle. Our teacher’s voice Both lesson and lullaby Returning to the breath Again and again We try to train our thoughts; Naughty as puppies With Baskerville bites I find peacefulness within the ordinary, Rest my head in the soft cushion of a second Savouring the beauty of this moment, Both rooted in earth and reaching for stars. Jacqueline Woods
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Castaway

If my cast was made of moss I’d be content With the spring of reassurance. If my emotions were made of clay I’d mould them Into a ball. If my ball rolled Far away I’d rescue them Without fail. Natasha
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Blue Sky

Blue sky And clouds float by Looking up high I can see why They do fly Blue sky Mavis
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Erosion

Unerring yet erratic The weight of water never waits for readiness Sandstone is proven to be a two-faced liar a pretence of solidity written into the features of its rockface which crumbles under a wave’s supremacy and we wave goodbye to all we knew Lynne Nesbit
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S.A.D

The black dog Shook his weary head Stay in bed He said. The black dog Followed me again Munching biscuits Lost energies for meals. The black dog Didn’t go for walks For three weeks He stayed inside. Not answering his calls The black dog remained silent Until Spring. Chris
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Willow Winterbourne

Winterbourne willow wetland Shooting sinuous sprouts Unforgettably Upright Therapeutic tactile tree Silently silvery still. Robert
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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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