For all who like to wonder
May I never stop seeking you where the birds sing
May my heart lift with hope at the beat of a wing
May the rustle of Spring stir my quickening breath
And the signs of new life banish tendrils of death
May a morning’s fresh promise yield warmth and a smile
And a journey look hopeful beyond gate or stile
As I stand in a meadow, my soul in my hands
May delight lift me upwards to bright dreamed-of lands
There are shooting stars up there, you know
Beyond the Earth-bound cloud
The heavens are bright with dancing lights
If our eyes could pierce the shroud
A day can seem unfathomable
And life so strange and pale
But wonders rich dance on, dance on
When glory lifts the veil
Her blackened branches cradled there
A lustrous gift beyond compare
Spread, wide, yet undeserving, she
Upheld the night sky’s deity
An orb immense, whose borrowed light
Suffused the tree with pure delight
Though leaf and bud had left her frame
This honour magnified her name
Her royal crown and steadfast bole
Well-suited to a starring role
As tall she stood, and proud and fine
The expertise of her design
Enveloped Heaven’s spectral sphere
Her exclusivity now clear
She swayed and smirked at trees around
Convinced she stood on hallowed ground
But ere her branches stooped to bow
A darkened shadow kissed her brow
Her love departed all too soon
As she, bereft, let slip the moon
What a marvellous thing is the human skin
It’s the perfect thing for a covering
It keeps our bones and sinews in
What a marvellous thing is the human skin
What a wonderful thing is the human skin
It does its job over fat or thin
From a tiny babe to a man mountain
What a wonderful thing is the human skin
What a fabulous thing is the human skin
With the rainbow shades it’s available in
From the richest ink to the pinkest gin
What a fabulous thing is the human skin
The clothes she chose said ‘je ne sais quoi’
A woman indifferent to fashion faux pas
No couture by Balmain, not even her bra
The woman whom fashion forgot
Her trews and blouse were lacking in taste
A covering thrown on in indecent haste
Unmindful of bosom, or bottom, or waist
The woman whom fashion forgot
That some were donated, well evidently
With T shirts misshapen and stains plain to see
No-one would pay money to look drab as she
The woman whom fashion forgot
Her ‘friends’ often smirked that she dressed in the dark
A person unnoticed in party or park
Oblivious to censure or catty remark
The woman whom fashion forgot
And yet she succeeded where others had not
Her famed TV series was hot beyond hot
A host of admirers for her primetime spot
‘The Woman whom Fashion Forgot’
As she scrambled clumsily down the bank, her M&S skirt snagging on the tangle of brambles, she wondered again at the madness of what she was about to attempt. Her sandals slid in the greasy clay underfoot, causing her to veer backwards. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip and she propellered her arms out to steady herself, before arriving precipitously at the wooden door.
The paint was peeling and there was evidence of a rodent gnawing the bottom edge. The hole where the handle had once allowed access enabled Jen to glimpse the dingy interior. She poked her finger into the gap and leant back to tug, expecting great resistance.
Surprisingly, the door gave easily as she pulled, snagging only on the briars that had overgrown the bottom edge. Kicking gingerly with her sandaled feet, Jen cleared an arc, sufficient to allow her to squeeze through, and let out a gasp of satisfaction once she was safely inside.
A sudden rumble made her duck down. The 9.47. She glanced at her watch. She had meticulously studied the timetables this past week and made a log of the different times she needed to be careful. If this was to work at all, it was imperative no-one knew she was there. Driving round the area at odd hous, she had identified a suitable place to leave her car, where it would not cause too much suspicion. She had also tried out a few different routes to the siding, which was on an embankment that backed onto a trading estate. A wall of brambles had rendered the concrete hut near-invisible from any direction.
She had found a couple of access points, just so she could vary it a bit as she came and went. Not that she was planning to move about too much.
She unpacked the rucksack she had brought with her containing essential supplies. Her Pilates mat would suffice as a mattress, its garish pink at odds with stark concrete shell. A couple of litre bottles of water – these would have to be replenished at some point but she had pictured herself topping them up in a local pub toilet if the need arose.
Jen continued her unpacking, hoping that she had all the essentials for her stay. What had she calculated? Well, she had booked a week off work, telling her boss she had a family emergency up in her home town of Stoke. They hadn’t questioned it, knowing that she was an only child and therefore the sole support for her elderly parents. Actually, they were both long dead, but Jen had never shared that with her employers and accountants are remarkably uninterested in the lives of their staff, just as long as they do a good job and enhance the reputation of the firm.
It was much as she expected when she first spied the concrete bunker on her way to London last week. Staring dreamily out of the carriage window, studiously avoiding eye contact with the retirees opposite, who were chattering excitedly about their trip to the Olympics planned for that afternoon, Jen’s eye caught the dilapidated bunker nestled deep into the embankment, almost obscured by bushes.
At what point her idle musings about it being a perfect hideout for a tramp turned into this – what was it? Jen wasn’t exactly sure. In her mind, on that day, it was conceived as more of a social experiment. What if? And here she was. Surveying the detritus of a previous adventure, perhaps by neighbouring teenage gangs – although there had not actually been any neighbourhoods nearby.
Jen had done a recce after her London trip, which had been a perfectly ordinary business meeting – little thinking that she would end up on this hair-brained venture. Was it hair-brained? Let’s see, she thought, as she used a bit of cardboard to scape a clearing in the junk and dust surrounding her sandalled feet.
Clouds ascended, tier on tier; the lowest a soft bruise, the highest, a celestial tower, climbing fist over swollen fist to the Heavens.
And all the while the sun, a diamond distilled against a crystal sky, glared as we passed the silent Rollright Stones. Druids in modern garb stood sentinel, faces masked in grateful reverence, hands clenched as if in prayer.
The sun’s corona bathed them in resplendent light. How long they stood, no-one knew. Nor if the Fates’ alignment was in any way altered. But their silent mutterings intoned a warning. Ignore the portents if you dare.
Hope is simmering like a pot to boil
Germinating in new-fertile soil
Now relinquishing the sorrows past
Freed to entertain my dreams at last
Knots unravelling that seemed tight bound
Loosing tentacles that wrapped around
Breaths completed as they ought to be
Unrestricted now to step out free
Recreated from a self dissolved
Starting fresh with all my puzzles solved
The purity, the innocence
The heart in love with love
The world a dazzling playground
A boundless treasure trove
Each day a great adventure
Each day new hugs and smiles
With endless vistas opening
Delights that run for miles
No mistrust and no caution
Expecting only blessing
Where kindliness is pre-ordained
And needs no second-guessing
Our childhood spirits still live on
Though trials may hide their light
But now and then we glimpse the past
Our young selves shining bright
I love the sound of the wind in the trees
As I fill my pot with blackberries
Those shining orbs of purple-black
Their swollen lustre calls me back
To pick and pick beyond my needs
Each straining, laden spikelet pleads
Take more! Take me! How succulent
And so I grab till force is spent
And home return with thorns and scratches
To bake my puddings into batches
And still the topmost branches call
Come back! Come back!
There’s more for all!
slow time and the soft infinity
The Power of Story
musings from a transcendent dimension
Poems, poets, poetry, writing, poetry challenges
For all who like to wonder
since 2003
