What I writ on my holidays - Part 4

Continuing my stream of bucolic thoughts from here...

Spring in Woodchester Park

Steep wooded slopes hide
Rare box-tree copses,
Ancient yews and ramson swathes,
All bluebell-blanketed;
Here and there, violets, wood-anemone and columbine
Complete the palette,
Woven through with forest trails,
Snaking down to chain-strung ponds,
Valley-sleeved
And still,
But for the raindrop ripples
And gentle wakes of drifting waterfowl -
Shadows of over-arching boughs
Loom large,
Darkly conifer-toothed -
A surprising moment of menace,
But fleeting
As squall gives way to sun -
Derelict boat-house now leaf-dapple lit,
Spider-spun window-shutters,
Walls web-claimed,
Rusted hitching-hooks remain beneath,
A reminder of more rowboat-rowlocked days
Passed in quiet contemplation
Of the bark-brown and greening
Capability of trees.

Oh what a beautiful morrrrrninggg

Gotta love the beautiful spring sunshine...

The People of the May

Dance, you bullet-headed lobster-folk,
Parade, o pretty solar-powered ladies,
And sturdy chaps, don’t hesitate to stomp
In off-road action flip-flops -
Put away those gloves and scarves,
Bring out your tents,
Even if they be Cath Kidston, gents -
Light up your long-forgotten barbecues,
Waste a work-day in the park -
Such larks -
Dust off the shades and flowered shorts,
Quaff an ale or coloured cocktail,
Forget to hydrate properly,
Baste in factor oops-forgot,
Embrace the hot,
Think ‘please-no-monsoon-mud-this-year’
Festivally optimistic,
Sacrificially,
Cast the runes of Womad,
Question old Inspector Glasteau,
And send Sir Bestivale to quest -
It might be dry, you never know (I jest),
But for now,
The Green Man and the May Queen,
Bathe us in reflected glory,
Even tom-cats and old terriers,
Cease bite-and-scratch on such a day,
Bask on -
Enjoy the joyful sun-sent rays.

hey hey it's the first of May

May 1st is brimming over with symbolism - the transition from spring to summer, regrowth, the meeting of the human and spirit worlds and of course the international labour movement.

May Day liminal

Where were you, thirty-first of April,
And the zero’th day of May?
Obscured by smoke from Beltane beacons -
Drive cattle ‘tween the tway -
Or fervent recitations of
The Internationale, comrades,
By Billy Bragg, with fist on heart
Unite on Workers’ Day?
Did I oversleep Walpurgisnacht
Or get drunk on Calan Mai?
We’ve skipped from spring to summer
Without my notice either way.

So quick-quick to the holy well,
To sunwise-walk and offer
Up a precious shiny thing,
Picked carefully from the coffers.
Set yellow flowers at the door,
Roll, maidens in the dew,
Burn the horse-bones, ember-leap,
Appease the spirits true.

A festival of optimists,
Regrowth, fertility,
Though those two days I thought I glimpsed,
Keep calling out to me,
Forty-eight hours I’ll see no more,
Though e’er imaginary,
Lacunae of the calendar,
When dwell the faerie-sí.

C'mon spring...

On potency and patience

Spring is waiting, bright breath held,

For seasons’ change, time liminal,

As daffodils put forth their golden trumpets,

Fritillaries push curve-necked from the soil,

The first pond-skater skims alone on surface tension,

In sun-flecks, early insects dance,

They know spring’s coming,

And feel the equinox,

Yet chill east winds,

Bring flurries of near-gelid drops,

Finger-aching nips and bites,

Is this the winter’s last late frost?