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Nobody Knows- Tribute to a dead acquaintance


Nobody knows
Sat alone in the field
Seasoned,
and twisted corn stalks.

Nobody knows
my hidden thoughts
Reaching the heights,
Fortitude amongst thieves.

Nobody knows
against a backdrop
of August heat,
an Unplanned lesson.

Nobody knows.

Graeme

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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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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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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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A Way of Life

It’s become a way of life this summer, the canvas bag slung over my shoulder hoping not to need it hoping the sky will stay blue long enough to get a walk by the sea. It’s become a way of life this summer, wearing my green jeans, wearing a matching sweatshirt to keep the wind out, wearing green wherever possible to match my green cagoule in case I need it. It’s becoming a way of life, it’s true, this life of uncertainty which nags at the back of your mind and keeps you constantly looking up the weather on your phone. It’s a way of life, this anxiety which sends me scurrying for help when it mushrooms out of control in the middle of the night. Julia
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Spring Into Action

To return to leaf and brighten the day, Spring suddenly appears with accelerando of snowdrops and May in March. Fluted bird song fills the skies, worm casts aplenty rise to surface and morning dew appears. Paula  
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A Light Touch

Like a single pearl on a lupin leaf I sparkle, motionless, waiting for you to discover me. I like to tease a little, tickling bare limbs, making you shiver with delight. I like to be noticed. In summer I slip softly, silently into the bare earth, quenching thirst, satisfying desire. Winter storms excite me, lashing against windows, whipping up seas, splashing in gutters. You can have too much of me, you say. With scarcity I’m a precious jewel. Over-abundance brings disaster. Julia Duke
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Feathers

It’s as if all the birds In every weather Had dropped every feather The weight sometimes Of all those why's A ton of lead Or a ton of words unsaid Down on a feathered bed The weight belies The width of squawks When the birds are dead And they sing remembering When a ton of song Weighed the same as Fly away Autumns Flu away fall Feather or not Bird at all. Stephen Kirin
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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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Who Is Saving The World?

The recycler, bicycler, bio-masser and solar paneller, the sustainable developer, the charity worker, the medics (sans frontieres?), fundraisers and carers, givers and listeners, growers of organics, designers of biodegradables. Genetic engineers? Surgeons and researchers, forgivers and forgetters, Billy the bug hunter, Immy the mathematician, Troy the paratriathelete, Wendy the wigwam maker. The ones who go last, the ones who smile, the ones who don’t want to argue about it, the ones who give up their seat, the ones who calm a storm, the ones who cook up a feast, the ones who sing praises, the ones who shine, Auntie Gwen and Malala…… ….and I drink water from a glass bottle. Sue Foster Image by Fernando via Unsplash .
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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
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