Snowbound
Mountain slopes, mist, half out of sight,
Craggy ridges,
Lonely valley, a sweep of white.
Grey, grey sky,
Quiescent, latent, motionless, deep.
The depths in the valley are steep.
I looked up. Saw two buzzards sailing,
Swinging in rings,
Dancing on wing,
circling,
High, high up.
A grey, white day.
A grey high day,
No frenetics nor frenzied feelings,
Even the river is not reeling.
No snaking curves, no trills, no teeming,
Just a silent valley, snowbound.
No tracks, no trails, no runes, no rails,
Just white prevails.
No foxes a-creeping, no larks a-singing,
No honey in combs,
Pheasants silently roam.
No song, no spill,
No quivers, no rivers.
Just iced patterns in chaotic sleep,
Where frozen icicles, like daggers hang deep,
In isolated heaps, this valley is snowbound,
But for two buzzards sailing,
Right up there in the greying sleet,
Grey drift and steep.
Love Is
Love is captured like light on a wing,
As kestrels flutter high in a fling.
As the golden eagle floats across the ridges,
Love is like knots woven across bridges.
Love is fractal like a spinning whorl,
Love is braided across river curls.
It’s secret touch is love, is lust,
It sprinkles the earth with heart-warming dust.
Love is kindled, is protected and warm.
Love is lured away from the storm.
Love is a dance in ultramarine.
A lift, a promise, a cerulean dream.
Love blossoms on wind-spun branches,
Clinging to wishes, dreams and chances.
Love blossoms in a lavender hue,
Love is an intrinsic treasured you.
Think of the waterfall endlessly falling
Yet the rocks catch and protect its calling.
Think of the marbled sandstone rocks,
Protecting the two sand lizards docked.
Love is nature captured in a rainbow,
As dawn magics a yellow glow.
See the murmuration of starlings in flow.
So your love will be as it grows and grows.
Christmas Snow
Snow across hills, grey-white hedges,
Bulky, brick-like humps and wedges.
Fields are lakes where swans sail snug,
Seagulls beak-poke for worms and soft grub.
Swans adrift through swinging reeds,
Sheep high us with farmers’ feed.
Snow clouds looming in bluey-greys,
Fox and badger, jowl to jowl play.
Some clouds burst with hail-stone sleet,
Snow drags in drifting pleats.
One tiny reindeer stands forlorn,
Amidst snow clouds and glistening lawns.
A Bleak Bleak Trek
A rough rough journey, the trek,
The raw mountains, white bubbling beck.
Weak camels sodden underfoot,
The caravan trail exhausted, as it took
A year to follow that shimmering star,
Across the plains, the Hindu Kush afar.
Icicles like daggers hanging there,
Trails from glaciers with dirt to spare.
Deeply shaped valleys between mists of despair.
Fumbling, fingering, dripping, ticking,
Wide-eyed creatures hidden in lairs.
Stood high, there on the mountain crags,
Hungry for food, scraggy tails sag.
The marbled snow leopard, sly-eyed
Watches our camel train as we slip by.
Candles in the valley flickering and pied.
In valley folds, people confide
About the lustre of a star in the sky.
Many religions, belief systems befuddled.
We tether the camels where girls dance, troubled
In sequinned gowns. We are tired and rapt.
Goat meat hangs from the hot hot racks.
Tired and drunk with honied wine.
Wolves a wailing beyond the tree-line.
We are satisfied and lying down
As girls twirl in golden gowns.
As the winter sun lifts, the next day,
We are weary and the camels sway.
Their mouths foam. We humbly pray.
But on we travel with all our might,
Silken robes, embroidered tights,
Cloaks that billow like sails in the night,
Crowns of gold with gemstones bright.
We carry incense, gold and myrrh
Intent to seek just any birth,
The birth of what a King or Queen?
But it is that star across the green.
A luminous brilliance you never did see.
We tether our camels at the stable tree,
And in we go and kneel in fear.
A woman, wise-eyed holds a baby boy.
I look back these two thousand years or so.
A baby girl now, could have appeared.
It does not matter, male or female,
This is royalty on a big scale.
Whether this birth brought peace or war,
A stillness of starry melee afore,
Did it bring love for you and me?
In the stillness of that beautiful night
As the comets flew in full flight,
I sensed at least, something, humbling and right.
We bow down, a baby is loved,
We lay out gold and goods, ungloved.
Then back we went, leaving their trust,
Baby in mother’s arms thrust,
Cossetted in swathed blanket there,
Is this madness or what, I swear?
But for all the wonder and bliss
Of magic night with magic wish.
A weary trek back across the mountain paths,
Where wolves wail with ugly grasp.
Mists lingering above mountain snow,
Rocky crags in needle-like rows.
Aching feet, weariness and rot,
Will this love be forever forgot?
Published by The University of Bradford Anthology Society
“Blooming Under Bradford Skies”
Two Fat Crows
Two fat crows sat on the wall,
Two fat crows waddle and fall.
Their heads poke as they walk along,
Wet wet fields, beaks like prongs.
Two fat crows, neither here nor there,
Glossy black coats as they stare.
Dagger-like beaks poking for worms,
Clawing at the ground beneath the terns.
Two fat crows, grossly obese,
Walk side by side having a feast.
Couldn’t care less where they stand,
Or for that matter where they land.
Two fat crows from the midden fly,
Gliding across field to sky.
Black and fat, black and black,
Evil stabbing behind your back.
All beaks pointing north, north-west,
Eye by eyeball, in line with rest.
Bang their beaks into the ground,
Up jump the worms from the sound.
Two fat crows stalk stealthily,
Whilst the lambs eat happily.
One lamb’s eye is truly plucked,
What a marble of good luck.
Published by The University of Bradford Anthology Society
“Blooming Under Bradford Skies”
The Old Man in the Moon
This old man in the moon, what a magnificent guy,
Silver planet in Prussian sky.
Sends down sparkles of joy, a glint,
The moon is smiling, a mere wink.
Half-face, clown-like stare,
This old man howls with laughter there.
His face flickering in sea-wave lift,
Where the otters in dark waves shift.
Seagulls gone with bellies full of fish,
From the magnificent wind-wave swish.
The striped cat smiles and watches still,
As the otters chase across the spill.
Oscillation of seaweed in whiskers of brown,
Otters leap and run in moonlit sound,
To the tune of the waves crashing with might,
Whilst the moon smiles in iridescent light,
As tidal-fall flows into languid night,
Comets fly above bright.
But for this man in the moon tonight,
He just beams in a magical sight.
Clouds
These grey blue clouds that bend and fold,
Various whites paved with fractal gold.
Whisps of curls see them glide with pride,
Across the heavens where buzzards ride.
Fairy trails without a care,
Sail and frolic going nowhere.
Hues of purply blues and greys,
Masses of cottonwool with trails.
Bursting prolific out of the blue,
Fringed magic, cerulean hue.
Hefty bubbles, rumbling through,
Drifts, lifts, cannon fodder too.
Silken linen buttons and dew,
Drifts of dribbling lines askew.
These grey blue clouds ascending cliffs,
Hubble, bubble, comic lifts.
So as this sky fills to overflow,
Heap upon heap whiskers grow.
Feathers white like seagull folds,
Purply black of secrets untold.
They blow up fast, foam and gel,
Lift and drop into spiralling wells.
Never still nor static melt,
Fuzzed and furry like woollen felt.
See these fluorescent greying mounds,
Just a time-slot of bursting clowns.
White-belt spreads like fingers in the sky,
And inbetween a jet will fly.
Dappled chunks of ice-cream fluff,
Patterned shapes of huff and puff.
Swirling balls spinning in the air,
Slipping, sliding, precarious care.
Shapes a changing amidst the rust
Changing shapes from birds to crusts.
Sometimes they float pancake style,
Then suddenly a lift, a fluff a smile.
Gannets and Seals
Gannets are looping in rhythmic waves,
And a hundred seals bang down past the caves.
The tide is coming in; the tide is coming.
Gannets sail on wing; a twenty-line,
Jetting, looping, arrow points fine.
Fish are plenty as the seals toss and spin,
Deep diving and a flash of fins.
Plunging through thin channels of frothy waves,
Breathing again in the sifting sprays.
A stampede of grey-mottled seals.
This turbulent sea; this turbulent sea.
The cliffs are screeching out aloud.
Kittiwakes and seagulls in screaming crowds.
The sea is alive with screech and krill,
Scrabbling and whining like an Olympic spill.
Seals were basking in the sun, a moment ago,
As they head from the rocks to the kill.
See the gannets dive in a twenty-line.
Watch the sea whipping the foam fine.
Tawny seals, grey seals, speckled and brown,
Whine and moan at the cliffs in sea-time.
Puddle Ducks
Puddle Ducks
They paddle,
Sail away
Siver wakes.
They are speckled,
Chocolate and beige,
Velvet green heads,
The males.
The river is copper,
Ducks race,
In a trance,
With pace.
They dive,
Bob and bubble,
The willow boughs,
Dip into puddles.
They zig-zag,
Leaves like coins afloat,
Pied feathers all afloat.
A mallard scoots,
Between reeds,
Poking like needles,
Liquescent mood.
Ginger Moggy
I know you love my ginger stripes,
I know you really do.
You don’t really know me,
Like you think you do.
I’ve been to places special,
I’m a fighter too,
My great great Uncle Marmalade,
Fought at Waterloo.
Thanks for the tit-bits,
I really think you’re cool.
Thanks for your garden shade,
Your sunflowers rule.
Now I will eat anything,
Anything you like,
From tuna steaks to mashed bakes,
A crunchy fish slice.
But I really must be honest,
As I already have a home.
In fact, I have one or two,
I am a puss that roams.
Now Mrs Brown in Pimlico,
Now she’s a fuss-pot, sure.
She strokes me and I purr,
Then she reaches for the door.
Now old fat thumping Tom,
He smokes a pipe you see,
He feeds me meaty left-overs.
Whilst sit upon his knee.
Middle aged Milly Rixton,
In a flat in Peter Lee.
She lets me sip,
Out of her cup of tea.
I have fought in various battles,
And have battle scars from fights.
I always win of course,
I have exemplary vision at night.
I am known by several names,
Biscuit is one.
Marmaduke and Wellington,
And don’t forget Tom.
Now if you please,
I say. You are the best,
As you let me sleep beneath the shrubs,
And make a little nest.
Molly Fox at Brixton,
A wino of course,
Always lets me sleep,
On her quilt in her back porch.
So here I am, out on my calls.
Twenty-two houses in all.
But oh your love, and kindness,
You are so beautiful and tall.
So here I am again,
I’ll wrap my tail around you.
I’ll work for my keep,
I’ll chase the rats around you.
Now I say goodbye,
I’ll be back when,
I’ve seen the prime minister
On the steps of number 10.
Across the Thames to Islington,
I think I smell a rat,
A whole tin of sardines,
Sitting on Britannia’s lap.
My schedule, approximately noon,
I sneak into the palace fine,
Visiting her Majesty,
Right on time.
Her cushions are embroidered,
Her statues gilded and minks,
I sneak beneath her robes,
Whilst a gin and tonic she drinks.
My friends are all marbled,
Scraggy, piebald or striped.
I try to stick to just a few,
Whenever I go out.
There is just one though I fancy,
The mewing Persian Blue.
She has a gorgeous purr,
And at her house, I get stew.
Then back to Claribel Road,
There is nowt like this place.
Need to get rid of that lazy fox,
Though, it’s taking all my space.
Then I just sit there and meow.
She steps out straight away.
She bends down and strokes my fur.
It is the best part of my day.
Evening Fishing on the River Ribble
Slurp of the cows drinking,
Flick flies with their tails.
Surreptitious cast, sneaky and fast,
Line whipping the air with a rasp.
Cow-pat river, green-brown as it flows,
He’s fishing for salmon, I know.
Fat yellow, red flies with a speck of white,
Salmon might rise to his delight.
Mallards amidst marigolds,
Ancient stones and rabbit holes,
The Ribble runs like a snake you know,
Slides along whipping the land as it goes.
Summer birds trill, evening aglow,
Orb in the sky sheds a golden glow.
River in flush across rain fed ford,
Salmon is running with the Lord.
A heron pokes the water, a long beak stab,
It takes the minnow with a definite grab.
Swifts they dive high this evening,
The river is running and racing.
Cows snort, waddle and mow,
Each rivulet runs into the big flow.
Silverweed, dockweed; mounds for moles.
Mallards middling above the shoals.
Salmon are only interested in their spawning grounds,
Whilst the pools twirl in widened rounds.
Water races across sluggish pools.
Trust me; the fishermen are no fools.
He casts across the river span,
Pools spin across river fan.
Silt, slash, sodden and suck,
Rings of pools around the ducks.
Through the liquescence, mist magically rises,
Like a lacy shroud in disguises.
Her menacing fingers across the sink.
Leaping salmon are hidden in the drink.
The misty lady fingers the creeks,
Everything humid and white sneaks.
Her fingers fumbling the forest’s floor,
In the heat of the golden core.
Sauntering river stop teasing,
Pied treasures wavering.
Trout and salmon rushing fine,
But for the pull of one tight line.
Foul Rain on Moors
Foul is the rain on the moors, when the wind is angry,
Foul are the shadows of the taunting reeds.
Foul is the ugly black of the bulging clouds,
Coming to butcher me.
Foul is the wind beating the tree,
Foul is the voice shouting don’t come in.
Foul is the constant rocking of the boughs,
The wind is shouting at me.
Foul are the long tongues; rods of rain,
Foul is the licking of the drain.
Foul is the drumming as the cars rush home.
Homeless, falling all about me.
Foul is the moor’s sedge, purple heather beds.
The burial in the quagmire peat; well pressed.
Foul is the curdling voice up on the moors.
It will stop my hands shaking if you’ll open up your doors.
Snake
Needle-like snake wriggles
Along river bank.
Weaving through rustling reeds,
The labyrinths of my mind.
As river pushes to sea.
Whip-lashes over stone.
Boulders stacked in a game.
Stops and sidles down,
Into the gurgle-spill
Where it zig-zags in the rill.
The river triple bubble-spit.
This slender scaly creature,
Out of spill to grass-moss green,
Black glossy beetles walk on stilts.
This serpent watches with glass eyes.
Stretched jaw with dagger teeth,
This adder attacks amidst the reeds.
Curvaceous banded bracelet squeeze.
My mind, a tight fit.
The Barn Owl
This jewel of a bird with heart-shape face,
Such a beauty, white chested, flies with grace.
It sweeps across heather-clad moors of purple lace,
Across the becks and waterfall chase.
I see a barn owl in Keighley station,
Old woollen mill town, the fascination,
Fat rats, scrawny rats and long-tailed specimens,
Spied by this jewel of a bird’s imagination.
The barn owl watches the crumbling congregation,
Where fallen stones lie in dilapidation,
The barn owl swoops in glorious sensation.
Wherever they are they are seen to swoop,
Stealing through the twilight skies in loops,
Each night as the orange ball in sky sloops,
For field voles and mice, it roots.
I also see the barn owl above the ridges,
By the forest edges,
Beyond the linear stone walls.
This beautiful barn owl, there it goes.
Swinging with screeching call.
Sunset on Sea
The clouds in hues of mauves and purple,
Sneaks before, a ruby bauble.
Streaks of freaky, yellow gold,
Tinsel orange glistening folds.
In shapes of dogs, cats and moles,
Dragon birds, giant souls.
Dolphins dive splish splosh splash,
Fishing boats sail back home fast,
Whales in circles make big waves,
Mermaids hide in secret caves.
Twilight sky, undisturbed
Fluffs by solemnly, unperturbed.
The Old Oak Tree
Jostling, rocking, kaleidoscopic waves,
Spill. Shush, hear it jive.
As the sun sinks into the evening sky,
An old oak tree with its oaken eye.
Sprawling roots, medieval shoots.
Cling to the banking tight.
From tiny acorns big oaks grow,
From tiny ideas, masterpieces flow.
The Wharfe is singing fine tonight,
The rain-fed river, ochre, peaty and bright,
Dances and flickers in shards of light.