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Seasons


To each a season: the planets
Turn in Kepler's gyre,
Swelling the mental weather,
Fattening the wealth
Of light and dark I weekly
Feel in my own solitude.

To each a season: a death
Of what was hard and cold:
A burst of sun to break
My hoary sadness
And gild the shining tower
I build around your smile.

But let's not talk of sun
But speak instead of life
And all the things I feel
When living through mortality.
The lovely times
We feast and meagre times
We only feed on memories.

I have my seasons.

Tim Holt-Wilson
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Above a Sea of Fog

Caspar David Friedrich, 'Wanderer above a Sea of Fog' (c.1818) She once said I looked like a graceful swan drifting serene across the surface of the water, giving no clue to the feet paddling so furiously beneath me. It was a cliché, small comfort unless you are obsessed with appearances. His wandering, like mine, is threatened by the drifting mist that twists and turns, obscuring paths that lie ahead, decisions that weigh so heavily on lesser minds, not lightly made. Masterful he looks, above this boiling sea, so nicely turned out, so dapper in his neatly tailored coat, perched high above the reach of such disorder, never likely to muddy his resolve. Webbed feet paddle beneath me so constantly I am not always aware. I dress well, tie back my unruly hair leaving a wisp or two free to roam. I do not want to look severe. But the fog creeps. Julia
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Forever Searching

Search the walls Scan the corridors Express the highs Scribble the lows Writing explores The state of my mind.   Judith  
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Acronyms

PTSD PPE BA 2.75.2 Ratios, numbers, percentages “look after yourself…” they said. We were all Marcel Marceau feeling the invisible walls closing in. I was lucky, I could get out for 30 minutes Music in the car on the way home from the crem., to those invisible walls carrying the grief of the world on my shoulders and forever in my heart. Ratios, numbers, percentages “look after yourself… Suzanne
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River Stour, Sudbury

Mirror of ripples, floating tangles and bubbly foam. Swans racing The togetherness Of aqua. Sallow splashes Poplars tremble And minds drift. Jungle of reeds On vertical plane Moorhen hideout. Anon.
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The Funeral Arranger

The widow was strung up with tension The son’s body like a rag doll he held his mother’s hand as if with superglue -no tears-the air felt like treacle. “what sort of coffin would you like?”… Clare
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Hawk Moth

Hawk moth Waiting alone Tenderness revealed, In the Shadow of the Friary. Cushioned wind Stifling air Song thrush Beckons the Spirit of the summer. Afloat with thoughts Memories of Parched earth and forgotten Spheres. Suzanne
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Covid Nature Alert

My friend I noticed during lockdown the class in shops a mask turned quiet and shy. Our only contact during stay at home was texts on your phone he was most alone. Jase went to the woods in his black hood he came back with a ruck sack. His sackful of leaves from different trees he started to draw and I looked in awe. He's now an artist with lots of commissions through natures' editions no hospital admissions. Archie
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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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Ode to a Tilted Tree

Your body tilted Your leaves wilted Your energy royal, your friendship loyal. But you are discouraged and tired of being sparingly admired. Your head bends steadily towards the water, The by-standers do not seem to bother to listen to the stories you can reveal, Allowing the history and your presence to heal the wounds one carries in her mind; You seem exhausted yet humbly kind. Welcoming strangers with a warm embrace Your wrinkled skin and a weather-beaten face contrasts with a jovial and mischievous grace of the young branches so naive but stable… How much you must be grateful - for these smooth slender arms, With your inner protection nothing harms.   Anon .
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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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