A poet’s year.
© Graham Sherwood
I have always had a love of words, of others’ words and of words used to describe the natural world. A painter tries in vain to draw the colours of nature in all its beauty and likewise, a poet tries, similarly in vain, to write the words that adequately describe the seemingly impossible story of the world in which we all live. The words that follows are all my own. However inadequate they sound they belong to me and best describe my feelings whilst out in the wonderful countryside, often by rivers, doing what I enjoy the most, trying to catch a trout.
For my wife Anna and children Adam, Laura, John and Hannah and my friends Who are unaware that I write poetry
January January’s weak, unlikely wind, sneers and growling back at yuletide’s indulgent frivolity, scowls again, to usher brusquely in the new year’s hopes, desires and fears. And in that dour and clammy chill, Janus with his ancient tethered clanking key, hesitates, unsure which die to cast, then scatters fortunes with ne’er a blink.
The Test Butter brown Camouflaged Deep, shingle bed Languid shimmer Ranunculus Sage green tread Fly spent Ophelian Turns his head Supping kiss Rippled Then vanishes, instead Gentlest cast Poetry Gossamer, invisible thread Mayfly drake Resplendent Proud wings spread Hunter hunted Temptation Hooked, instantaneous dread A frantic plunge Desperation No sanctuary ahead Skilful rod Synergy Cupped hands led Beautiful, quarry Dispatched Well-caught Fred! Dawn passed Breakfast Trout, tea, bread
February So, comes my sublime beauty Februa, She, of icy breath and eyes of amethyst returns to pierce my heart once more, to snub my pure, white, devoted love, a capricious erstwhile valentine. Cloaked in snow, with winged feet, Stays briefly, still, to catch my gaze, She deigns me kiss her pearly ring, her only token left, a floral bed, shaken brusquely from a snowy cape, the violet and the primrose, and she is gone.
Shower on a dam wall Cold, steel grey so heavily laid, a sombre biting shower of lavish sequined spots, splashes loud, and nowhere to run, sits, in silver crown-shaped plump voluptuous blots. Each drop a prostrate bulbous dome, a pewter button-teardrop, erect and balanced proud, forms a curving, swirling, brindle arc, and merges to an inky, sewn, diaphanous shroud. Beneath the clouds like callous vultures, preen their menacing billowed phantom cloaks, and whilst perched awaiting food, linger, hovering, to play a cruel and twisted hoax. Then princely Sun appears to simmer deluged stones, a leafy, fresh herbaceous tang, a steamy pebbled soup, reserved, once more the mirrored lake is calm, and tiny clouds of black gnat swarm to loop the loop.
March A fearsome battle looms Early on this Martius Ide, as Rhedam growls her callous breath, a loud and stormy lion’s roar that rips our throats, our eyes, our sense, throughout these lengthened brittle days. Sharp diamond eyes, direct her icy phalanx down, to break yet another bent and battered foe, whom though defeated, stricken, lain on harsh scrubbed sodden grass, is neighbour to the newborn lamb.
Reveille Winter’s bitter knife slides to the scabbard once again, as March’s milder lion stirs to roar through field and fen, the tackle trunk is once more dusted down, from pantry shadows beneath the fusty cobwebbed stairs. A trusty canvas bag, held taut by neatly buckled cleats, is carefully tipped to table, the myriad treats, then ranked by gentle fingers like sundry bits and bobs, they take their pride of place. Fly box soldiers mixed, spent or missing, appear a ragged crew, nymphs and spiders un-drilled, at ease and all askew, are given close inspection near tip of nose, surveyed as if by Sergeant Major’s beady eye. A double-tapered serpent writhes in bowl of soapy balm, drawn through cloths and draped ‘round sagging arms, then neatly coiled on gleaming shiny reel, that Santa brought, a secret on the Christmas Day. Then from the trunk comes Grandpa’s chestnut leather sheath, that holds the wand, the ancient split cane three-piece suite, No longer used but smelled and polished just the same, An angling Samurai, treasure from another’s time. And last from pockets in this battered portmanteau, are pulled the stubs of fishing forays long years ago Which raise a sentimental winsome smile, as each is thumbed, anticipating further rendezvous.
April Afore the pious Easter church, beneath its oak grey April lych, a fool awaits his sweetheart there. He solemn holds a daisy chain, but eyes closed, shut, thinks only of the sweet pea flower. As next year’s ghosts scurry by, to say a prayer this St Mark’s Eve, plump raindrops wet the gravel schist. They play a hapless sombre tune, to cheer the bride that will not come. Impassive stands the fool.
Apparition And then, the imperceptible change of light drapes my shoulders, nestling like a virgin’s veil. Its hazy, muslin, twilight patterns dance before my earnest, narrowing eyes. So, wandering and wondering amongst the dimming creams, and charcoal greys of dusk, forty years just fall away. He is here again, and I know it’s time and turn to go. But not before his ruddy hand taps lightly on my sleeve, and strokes my neck. “Time for home son, leave them here”. And creels creak, reeds snap, a distant whistle, I am alone once more. The evening’s dampening aperture lies heavily on my nostalgic gaze.
May Oh, this crushing heavy ache, these long, long sleepless nights, when all around is hawthorn bloom, lilies and the nightingale. Why must I choose, why? between two such perfect maids that come this misty morn. Maia, fair bedecked in apple white, her woven tresses kiss our dewy emerald lawns, whilst cherry pink among the silver bark rides Bona Dea upon her hobbyhorse. Both come to dance the garland round, Blossom-laden heavy, but lightly trip’d, around the virgin pole, a ribbon romance, To stir this erstwhile poet thus. Why must I choose?
The Cast The cast for trout a sensuous art So often fraught with consequence When one in twenty lightly lain Is wealth enough for most of men The cast for trout in pristine calm A fleeting rhythm whistled soft Beneath the dappled canopy Unheralded art in nature’s vault The cast for trout a wicked curse Distracted eye or lazy hands that Greedily stretch for one more yard An ugly splash spoils morning sport The cast for trout electric charge When fly and quarry intercourse A bristling shock that starts the fight In mutual awe each other’s will.
June Untended, wayward tendrils the honeysuckle rampant grazes peeling paint and dusts the window’s frame. Morning’s lark has long since flown, and beauteous siblings two, stretch to feel an early sun. Juno, Hera both akin, lay draped in silk and pearls, around fat berries ripe, rose petals’ pink and birdsong’s trill and on and on, breathe life’s force through the flaming day.
Ise Brook days Tackled up I’m off at eight, with Tizer, sarnies, maggots, bait. Strapping rods along the crossbar, Heed words of caution from my ma. Caught by the “parky” through the rec, He’ll tell my dad but what the heck! About the clip he gave my lug, For not dismounting, what a mug! Far in the distance steam trains grind, I cycle on one thought in mind. Down Church Hill my bike wheels whistle, Startling cats that crouch and bristle. St Mary’s spire soars tall, alone, As mossy gravestones lean and groan. Where widows water fresh laid posies, And dab their tears from eyes and noses. Then Madge the spinster calls her dog, Who lopes from lingering morning fog. Amongst the church yews, standing guard, Above the empty schoolhouse yard. I beg a pint from Cowley’s float, And guzzle it, dribbling down my coat. Then bid farewell and stroke his horse, Who shuffles forward in due course. Toward a bench where old folk linger, They offer sugar from the finger. And old chaps nod, with moist eyes wishing, They were me as I go fishing.
July An aging Leo, sated and replete dozes long, in summer’s stifling torpid blaze. And clumsy crane fly hop and clatter, onto water lily landing pads. Nearby young fearless Caesars play amok, between the lifeless silent trees, they swish the knee-deep larkspur’s purple ruby bloom.
Canal The smell of Sunday bacon slowly wafts away, as Sunday skippers don new anchor caps, and point their brightly painted cruisers south, toward the willowed tunnel, where others hum and chug in line. An early walker’s chocolate spaniel piddles, where other dogs have roved and sniffed before, near rusting origami barges, lashed tight and long forgotten, old heroes lurch and creak in line. Dozing anglers sit with thoughts of record bream, dormant, beacon floats hang still like photographs, then heave a lurching bow-wave sigh, with muttered curses rods are steadied once again in line. Morning wanes and for the lucky some, nets are wet, timid sparrows perch on open maggot tins, cast off coats, redundant, lie inside out impaled on bulrush spears, a whistle’s rasp is echoed down the line. The bank-side’s psychedelic rainbow oily sheen, dilutes when wriggling bags are slowly poured, Then noses catch the drooling scent of Sunday lunch, as beef and Yorkshire fills the air, unhurriedly, they wait at the stile in line.
August And so we rest and guilty take our ease, within the butter yellow corn, fearing that a listless solemn haughty August, should stir from smouldering embers and catch us naked in its swathe. Like blinded furtive lovers lying hot and damp, amongst the signal poppy crop, seduced, we roll to face the pastel sky and shade our eyes, aware the reaping somewhere has begun.
Lodge Lake at Dawn Padding lightly, on newly sewn velvet slippers, tiptoes the elegantly stretched and misty limbs of yet another morning. Shimmering, brightening, from the yawning east, a busy sun lifts his constant furrow, a scissor cut, rent through the pale azure cloth. Preening fowl as yet unhindered on their nests, take little care to look, their honks and hooters start the morning’s recital. Still, no breezes dry the teasel’s stubborn comb. Anticipating, fumbling fingers dither with float and shot, wicker creaks to find a level berth. A friendly nod is cycling by with nosey hound, distracted by the Kelly kettle’s bluish clouds, that bubble warmly for an early brew. A perchy plop, commuting roach, slide by in haste. Will it be a fishy day, Or just another comfy lakeside snooze?
September The harvest barley stands now in crooked stooks, impatiently Vulcan waits and stokes his fiery forge. Hark, Goosefair time approaches fast, excited children pick the conker and the blackberry. Under heavy sapphire skies young schoolgirls dance, corn dollies jiggle from their belts. As asters bloom, seven becomes nine, And without a nod the stubble burns.
Overture A newly risen wet October sun, draws up the misty, vaporous horsemen of the dawn, who pause, and shimmer, then take their ghostly leave revealing reds and russet, golds and brown. On cue through jigsaw leaves, a mottled canopy come shafts of butter-honeyed sunlight, spears to spotlight any scene, the newly forming day might bring, a drama set, the players wake and amble to their place. The trees exhale, a settling timbered shuddering stretch, amid a freshening busy breeze, that gives the news of visitors, who trudge in stealth upon the mossy path and scurrying coots announce the morning’s overture. Dragonfly coupling pause, to lightly turn a pirouette, on dinner-plate lilies idly nudged by gentle carp, then stillness falls, a hushed expectant calm abroad, and from the wings of woodland birds a ripple of applause. Thus with elbows leant on ornate weathered balustrade, and gaitered boots swish dewy knee-length tussock grass, this peaceful vista sends a warming balm to knowing eyes, and surely, Shakespeare could not lay a finer cloth today.
October A grey dust bloom smears plump blue sloes, fat rabbits and badgers sniff the damp and turn to go, as nature’s balance rounds the leaves to russet gold, so swallows, swifts and starlings gather to their fold. Small children run and tease folk with their flickering punky flames, now harvest’s in there’s time for apple-bobbing games, the new wine, warm, tumultuous gurgles in the cask, and newborn babies cry out loud as if to ask. Wanes the opalescent milky cloudless afternoon, ushering tired, marmalade sun to greet an early moon, our tacky hands deep stained with blackberry blood, we turn for home, with eager relish for our hedgerow food.
Easby Abbey Hidden deep, in leafy woodland smock, The woodpecker’s hollow rhythmic knock, Records the march of autumn’s clock In burnished red and gold. My ancient bike wheels raucous clank, Carves the puddled muddy bank Snapping sodden cobwebs, hanging lank, In tensile silver grey. Clean pine scent, earth, bark, musk, Pale pastels blot encroaching dusk, Fungi, berries conker husk, In dappled marmalade. A final trudge, through chiselled trail Damp moss on sleepers, rusty rail Squirrel taunts with flashing tail From Alder lime and green Smooth evening current, muted sound The tea-stained Swale glides around My trusty waders, thigh deep bound In fading sage and tweed A tiny woollen red tag treat Which lady grayling darts to meet That vital snatch that I must beat To glimpse her crimson mantle The bounty of the evening rise Is ever able to surprise The banquet of a thousand flies Replete, I turn for home
November Glum, doleful moon, alone, our only witness to such dreadful tragedy, spies on deadly Scorpius, chaperone to the winter’s chilling breath, who, dragging slain Orion’s bloody cloak, sweeps the crackling bronze crisped leaves, like autumn’s janitor. On this night all souls are blessed. This bloody month, this killing time, O mischievous night, a fragile armistice befalls us with our good clean ale and hopper cakes, astride our blinkered hobbyhorses. Tonight, all are hallowed.
March Lane Night’s gloom slowly fades, and surly, creeps away. Dawn’s languorous chill searches, yet another nose to nip. Hoary webs, their pearls sag, lank and damply draped. Autumn’s russet carpet creaks, and crunches brittle underfoot. Stubborn leaves shiver high, on whipping branches here and there. The musky breeze, mischievous, spins its breathy yarn unseen. Nocturnal beasts are safely back to bed, so grumpy crows can crack a throaty monotone. Below, the other world glides, its current cloudscape ambling by. In silent preparation, yawns, and stirs to greet another morn.
December Summer’s vivid apple green silks and limes, have faded blandly to a memory, The bottle sage of autumn, prone underfoot, no longer crackles, laughing with our heavy boots. In sodden maroons squirrels rummage, and shun the magpies chattering mockery, Shrill portents hiss, bitter from the north, tuned by fingers of the stripped-bare oak. Only pearls of mistletoe await their hour, to glisten moist above the Yule log’s flame. In warm dark corners heavy dormant eyes, bid the year failing adieu.
Stillwater Winter’s glacial breath has cast its spell, across the lake, a spectral misty veil smothers life to cowering torpid still, no plop nor ripple, no sign at all, save for the heron’s stoic piercing eye, that scans the needled rushy edge, for hapless minnow who venture in and out, to perish by a savage rapier’s thrust, snatched from the pike’s old mottled wily glare, who turns and waits the careless chick, an altogether tastier snack, caught dithering lately from the brood, that paddle briskly behind the urgent hen. Bronze pantiled leaves spread like embroidered thatch, beneath a naked bush of skeletal twigs, that point their crone-like fingers where, just below a fathom deep, slow bubbles rise as tench discourse, amid December’s gathering gloom.
A poet’s year © Graham Sherwood 2007