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Shallow Souls, North Downs Way

Amongst the shallow souls
Of oak, ash and elm
Uprooted beech and box
Tunnels
Parcelling light
Reaching wooded floor
Through toppled trunks.

Through decaying litter
Eroded scarp slope
Bewitched yew
And opportunistic birch;
Funghi a mass
Dusted flints
And twisted ankles.

Sickly, sinewy ash
Clusters of wild herbs
Wood rush and brambles
In fallen pockets
Reams of light,
Brightness to the isolated,
Hope on the murderous path.

Stephanie
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Alder Carr, Crichton

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Always with Us

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White Hawthorns

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Ecocide II. Lost Madagascan Solitude

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Lockdown

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Ready to Spring

Like the gnarly springtime bulbs, dormant in the ground Your demons crouch under the skin, waiting to be found Waiting for their moment, to break through and be seen The pale face of snowdrops, in a vibrant sea of green Emmalene Taylor
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Oak Meadow

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Yew Remember

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A Way of Life

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Mental Health

When is it really quiet? Underwater bubbles pop and sounds muffle. When drowning screams are choked by the deluge into mouth and larynx. Then there’s the sinking, the floating, the bloating. A Quakers’ meeting is quiet enough except for sniffs, breathing, the odd shuffle and the builders outside shouting and cursing about late cement. Then there’s catching up, and clicking back. Laying in clover and ox-eyes on a field is quiet but the wind wiffles leaves, whilst high up a buzzard screeches her woes. Does her mate listen? Then there’s the underground-scratching of moles. I meditate to find the quiet, swim to find stillness. I turn off radios, T.V., iphone, my mind. Yet cables buzz, aircraft streak across quiet skies plants and trees creak and sing as they grow. I seek the grail as I dance echoes of pain and joy I read my poems aloud, and then comes the silence. Sue Foster
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