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Edge of the Wood
Category Archives: Landscape
Everyday Occurrence
EVERYDAY OCCURRENCE
It was to be
just
another
ordinary
walk in the woods
Raison d’etre – ?
health – re-invigoration
It was to be
just
another
full overcoat
jamboree
into the home of
the trees
It was to be
just
another
‘half-conscious’
observational
excursion into the
grassy undergrowth
It was for me
a daily occurrence
– as for she
Healthy walks
with the nature girl
and I
the townie guy
– country mouse
meets town mouse
thirty-six years later
morphing into
country-town
mice
and then home for tea
Life by Paintings Measured
LIFE BY
PAINTINGS MEASURED
Life and it’s years
Measured by reflection
Recorded by another art work
Through choices of introspection
Forgotten or remembered dates
– written or not recorded dates –
signed pieces of spent time
scribbled on front or back –
Many escaped the cameras cache
Thus opening the door of surmise –
When – where – how – what – ?
Not sure and can’t remember
Marks of my own making
have gone out there
as fully-formed relatives of
heart and mind
Gone out there…
There – under the sun – elsewhere
under the skies and ceilings of
other homes
Lost they are –
No tag upon the ankle
– hanging on the wall
Gone from me their first love.
I’ve lost you – children of mine
Who could you possibly
mean more to – than I…?
Time ticked by
as I remember time ticking by
Whilst I studied you – changed you –
added to your import
As I filed you – sold you –
alas – oft with regret
Gave you – itemised you –
folded you – ironed you –
cut you – framed you – forgot you
or got you back.
Gave you to – unworthy foster parents
who put you somewhere –
closed off out of sight in
chest or attic
Years gone by –
measured in spatters – washes
– and dry-brushed patterns all amok
Time recorded in
frantic marks – that scurried across
one hundred and forty pounds cold-pressed
Some stood/stand the test of time –
others – disqualified by those in a
daze of incomprehension
“I don’t know much about art…”
was the rubber stamp at the
custom’s gate of their minds
Still – can’t complain –
‘cause some will not let you go
a pillar of time you represent in
associated thought:
“My husband loved that painting of yours
I still have it – wouldn’t part with it”
Time – years – paintings gone
Out of sight – owned by others
– never to return
Many of them have worn well
Others heard man’s benediction
spoken over them:
“Time for a change –
remove her from the wall…”
What possible worth
can be found in these –
the inanimate?
And yet – thought is
art engrafted-on-paper
and thought is Still Life
revealing – there is still life
Inanimate perhaps
but what stories they tell –
Vincent did well know
His paintings oft rejected –
before he had to go
No artist can measure his years
except by Retrospectives
He alone was at the secret birth
of images coming out
delivered to the picture plane
Years measured by paintings
All unique –
Dark and sombre or all aglow
Years measured by paintings
This will have to do
to document a life
On these – man places worth
If enough will say – it should be so
Years measured by paintings
A raft of scattered years
Recorded in line and colour
and form and tone by what appears
I wonder at them all
Categorised with equality
If rejected by the Salon
It doesn’t matter to me
Years measured by paintings
I have quite a few
still wanting to leave home
to make their way to you
Cricket – Exit
Reflection on a Selection
Spinning Bait
SPINNING BAIT
‘Neath the crystal shining water
Lodged amongst the weeds
Another competing shine
lay entwined
It was not profound
or naturally blessed with the poet’s
turn of phrase
Nor was it some phenomenon
of nature
encased within the naturalist’s
explanation –
with need of
the professor’s investigation
But shone it did –
approaching beauty –
near to
what only nature provides
Waiting for the line to snap
As the fisherman tried in vain
To free the three-pronged spinner
‘Horrible thing’ –
all-a-glistening
toothed and menacing
The pike’s most feared enemy
At interludes of rest
amidst his sweating effort to free it
– the fisherman sat and marvelled
at it’s shine
How innocuous and
silver-coloured-bright
is this piece of metal –
best kept there until the sun
seeks it out in it’s next smile
rendering it innocent when
knowledge of it’s use is missing
Enhancing it
to entertain with glee
the eyes of you or me.
However –
All that glitters does not have soft intent
But rips into flesh to get the predator out
Snap – cut – terminate – the line
And leave it where it is
Best to capture our eyes with beauty
Than to ravage fish for fun (?)
Botanic Design
The Hill
THE HILL
The tall tree beside the hill
Young boys rolling down
finding its adjunct
Buttercups blooming
flattened
(some)
on the roll
Up they would pant to the
top again
Falling down ‘headlong’
innocuously
All kinds of games
in Fresh air
mixed
with pollen and
various scents
Battle of Trafalgar?
…they knew nothing about
but re-wrote it’s history
a million times
…or thereabouts?
They knew each other well
In Phileo love
Interrupted by
contradiction
of the natural man
As
they all fought
for real on a bad day
Sloping home
It was ice-pops or ice cream or
penny chews or chewing gum
the reward of battles won
The hill never spoke
Never complained at being
trodden underfoot
They all knew it’s name
But never wondered why
The ‘Dummy’s Hill’
A green mound still
found
in memory’s sigh
Fishing Bond
FISHING BOND
The dew rested on the grass
That semi-chill factor
Pins and needles effect
On your advancing face
Good job – these water boots!
The grass is so long
Morning – Right time to fish
Or so they say
Settled
First cast in
Birds chirping now
with intermittent grace
And yes straight away
bite on the line
Played well and landed
Catch and release
ten fish later and
it’s time for a ‘home made’
Sandwich and a slurp of soup
Back to the casting
But as the day dwindles past noon
Then past the six o’clock mark
So too dwindles the fish
Still – thirty fish can’t be bad
Let’s call it a day
Did I say: my son caught more?
I pretend envy
While secretly so glad
for his success
Best buddies in the love of God
Thank you fish
My excuse for bonding
Park Wonder
PARK WONDER
It was that one part in the park…
The road widened
In fact –
it was the only stretch of good road
Canopied by the biggest trees
Creating a sense of wonderment
As the towering
guard of honour
lined the entrance to another land
To walk that trodden path
was a choice not to return
Until the teenage years
When returning was every day
Yet
Still wonderment remained
in the upward gaze that took in
the canopy of summer leaves
or winter branches
That part, that area, that corner of the park
Near that other road that ran parallel
with the home road
Out of bounds because of irrational fears
And stories no one knew the authors of
‘They’ lived over there
Over there on that other road
The unseen people
only seen in imagination-land
Walking to the start of the leafy lane
We paused as though noticing
the air had changed
Breathing-in we lifted our swords aloft
And charged
Into the valley of death –
once more into the breach –
down into indian territory –
or with Robin and John Little.
Hearty hi yo’s!
Into the leafy world
As the bright sunlight disappeared
Changing to disco strobes
Between the few gaps – above
that allowed it in
Imagination takeover –
as the script
was written afoot
no such thing as video games
to recall
Therefore
all original stories
up from the depths
of the poetic mind
except for those
punctuated by throwbacks
found first on the
black and white screen per house
Story after story played out
with wooden weapons.
of the most primitively wrought kind,
but transformed in the hands
of our minds
into glitteringly powerful
instruments
of imaginary self defence
Scene after scene
Dying twice-over
sometimes thrice-
Able to climb back on
imaginary horses
and ride slumped-over
back to the camp
They say ‘those were the days’
Those were the days indeed
What are the days
of the next generation?
As they sway from side to side
Controller in hands
or their faces twitch before
the twitching screen
Here imagination already provided
Played out like a chess game
Still imagination will remain
But will it continue to fuel
good healthy exercise
in the great outdoors
of Parkland?
The Black Bird
THE BLACK BIRD
The black bird
hopped a little
The staccato
movements
of his head
accommodated his
beady eyes
All clear?
Then, time for
another peck
Peck and lift –
Throw aside –
staccato look – again
Peck peck –
peck and lift
You get the picture
But no –
now
up up and away…
Today’s takings
taken to the nest.
Feed
regurgitated one
regurgitated two
Partner?
– elsewhere occupied
“I know nothing about birds”
I reflect
“Nothing about birds…”
I don’t know
one species
from another
But they all
Peck and lift –
Throw aside –
staccato look – again
Peck peck –
peck and lift
Window
