Poems
Wolven
To howl wolven
howl for joy
and the wonder of being
a link of sound
between earth and sky.
Why does a wolf
open throat the sky
at dusk
as the pack’s coats
melt into mist?
Each pack shelters
within its own sphere
yet its calls
reach out to the ever
inclusive wild.
Wolf howls are precise
gathering grandeur,
wolf energy shifts
through forests
of lifetimes.
Poets and scientists
attempt to unravel
the marvel
of the evening star
as she rises.
Only wolf
nails it
in high flying notes
igniting
the ashen face of Venus.
Grandmother’s Advice to Little Red
Know your instincts.
Trust them.
Acknowledge their ways and means
as they drive through you;
know they are counting
every single beat of your heart.
In playfulness
each of them grows strong,
a fabulous presence in its own right;
still a child, an explorer, a criatura.
Don’t let them fall
into lifelessness in your neglect.
Don’t herd them either, just be.
Feed them adventure and tears.
Red, you were not born
out of thin air, but conceived
in the breath of the following
spell from the wildwood:
​
Take Cover – Turn Coat
Come Red – run red – Run
Take Heart – Turn Tail
Run Red – run red – Come!
​Allow your self flightiness,
it calls you
through wind on the land,
flame and water.
Gather what you need most
in your arms.
It will nourish you
so you flourish.
You are out of the ordinary.
It is instincts make it so.
Turn yourself into them.
Take up your bright lively hood.
​​Stream
Every star over the moors was a trouble,
before it was speaking in light, the way stars do.
Every journey was meaningless dust, until
that moment the feet touched water and tingled.
Granite beneath us is restless in its core;
cooling, heating, repeating patterns of flux.
The old Dartmoor saying is true now
gorse is in flower and kissing’s in season,
while the stream closest to home
is singing the song of songs.
Bluebells
​
I’m as earth, he’s as fire.
When the sun calls
it triggers a secret door in the pollen;
through millions of leaves
he’s gone to pick bluebells.
I call his name
over the circles I run in;
arms fly out to be leaf.
Jealous of nature,
a mother’s dry breast
is a useless thing.
Let me be still;
an earthenware jug
full of water
for bluebells.
Exchange with an Oak
​
I didn’t plan how to feel
when leaving this student bedsit
on the first floor, up close
to an oak’s sturdy limbs.
The tree has, just lately,
unfurled all its aerofoils;
I would have thought
enough to fly.
If it could perceive me better;
an earthling, therefore part
of the race with many tricks
to bring it down, it would:
change the colour
of its flag to red overnight,
unroll a multilingual ‘enough’
from its leafy tongues,
remove the saving grace
of its oxygen from my air.
Until the last minute, I go on
drawing gift after gift
from this oak; an old routine
we continue for every day
I am here. Transpire, partner,
estrange, reconfigure.
No One Expects Stars
they're dead sharp like fossils
or dance steps of snowdrops.
Their chief weapon is surprise…
lightness and surprise.
Their two chief weapons
are lightness,
surprise…
and team spirit.
Among their weaponry
are such diverse elements
as surprise and pale determination,
like the white in human hair.
White as a signpost, or broken line
down the centre of the road,
a night sky is a snowfield
with silver drifts of hedges
hanging around for a footfall.
The touch of a voice
triggers avalanche…
walk beneath with care.
