Plum Harvest

          Plum Harvest

“Where do you live?” I asked him.

“On the M25,” He said.

“I’ve been there since the summer 2012.

I was going to Berkhamstead.”

“It was a quarter to eight in the morning

when the traffic all ground to a halt.

It will be a few years till they get it clear,

they say.  It was nobody’s fault.”

“I’ve made some good friends in the car next door

who were trying to get to Tring.

I’ve got a bit of a garden around my car.

I sell vegetables in the spring.”

“We British are great in a crisis.

The woman next door bakes cakes

in an oven they’ve made on their engine,

and wonderful barbequed steaks.”

“I must be getting back soon.

There’s activity in the fast lane.

I hope I’ve got time to harvest the plums

before we start moving again!”

Trevor the turkey

Trevor the turkey

Trevor the turkey was putting on weight.

He thought it had something to do with the date.

He racked his brains, but he couldn’t remember

why his mum had said most turkeys don’t like December.

He didn’t know why he was feeling so nervy,

more and more as his shape got increasingly curvy.

He caught a bus from the farm, and went down to the gym,

got a personal trainer and tried to get slim.

He spent hours each day on the exercise bike,

but the farmer said, “Trevor, leave my farm if you like.

I’ve got no room here for a turkey so thin.”

So Trevor went off and booked himself in

to a health farm and lived for a month on a diet

of lettuce and fruit juices, peace and quiet.

He stayed until spring, then went back to the farm,

but the farmer said, “Trevor, whilst your figure has charm,

I know that, when cooked you’d be rather sinewy.

Your fat–free physique would be tasteless and chewy.”

So Trevor, with hardly a backward glance,

left England for ever and headed for France,

where he lives to this day in a flat near Mon Martre,

drinking wine, eating brie, reading Jean Paul Sartre.

The moral is, if you’re a turkey, remember,

always go on a diet at the end of November.

Patterns

Patterns

Do you remember

dripping on toast,

melting, mingling, marbling of meat jelly,

or an oily kipper with buttered bread?

(Mind the bones!)

Scraping with your nails

the frost fronds on insides of windows,

light patterns on the ceiling

from the smelly oil stove at night?

(Don’t get out of bed!)

Hopping across

flower patterns on cold lino,

to reach the rag rug,

making it a game,

pretending the floor was

shark-infested seas,

buttoning rubber liberty bodice buttons

with freezing fingers?

Lining up carrots,

(eat the carrots first),

trying to eat

huge plates of gummy mutton stew

that took an age to chew.

(You have to eat it all.)

Skipping on the pavement,

(don’t tread on the cracks),

tram lines on the road

(Mind! Don’t get your feet caught,)

tall stark skeletons of elms in winter

rooks’ nests clumped together, high up, high up,

(if you see one rook, it’s a crow.

If you see a group of crows, they’re rooks.)

Streets of scrubbed front doorsteps

gleaming white before breakfast,

lines of flapping washing,

(It’s all a competition.)

mothers with hair in sleek victory rolls,

flowery overalls crossed on their chests.

Eerie air raid sirens,

(they have to test them,)

a quarter of a Mars bar each on Sundays,

(special treat,)

mangles and mincers,

galvanised buckets of washing

boiling on the stove.

Do you remember the pattern of the days?

The Nuthatch Nest

The Nuthatch’s Nest

Meet me near the nuthatch’ nest,

for who shall know but you and I

just where this creeping creature built

her home away from prying eye?

Who else has listened to her call.

Who else has spotted, as they stood

absorbing the sweet solitude,

in that quiet clearing in the wood,

that flitting flash of peach and grey,

that darting streak, that fluting cry,

whose hearts rejoiced to spy her

momentary rest, but you and I?

Who else had tied, on trunks and branches,

squirrel-proofed tubes of wood and wire,

who mended, tended, debated, worried,

discussed and fussed, and moved them higher?

who else had trudged, with earnest wish,

with nuts in rucksacks, every week?

Who scrambled and scrabbled to keep them filled,

to tempt the searching nuthatch beak?

Who spotted, one day, as the leaves

 blown by a breeze out off the way,

a hole in a trunk, and, as we watched,

an eye-stripe and a flash of grey.

Who watched to see, laboriously crafted,

from what was a jagged hole before,

with beakfuls of mud, on many trips

a perfectly circular front door?

Who but we wait, like anxious fathers,

helplessly hoping that all will be well

for those nuthatch eggs we hope have been laid,

for the first beak to break through the delicate shell.

A question for those who dare to assume

that we are in any way obsessed

with this elusive blue-grey bird-

Have you ever seen a nuthatch’ nest?

The Keeper of the Egg

The Keeper of the Egg

I am the keeper,

The keeper of the Egg.

Here in my hand

is the egg of the future,

for this is the world egg.

It is from the Earth.

Our world has given birth.

I am here to guard it.

I will keep it while it sleeps.

Soon, it will wake.

Soon, tiny rivers will begin to flow

from all the cracks and crevices

on its surface.

Rivers will form seas.

Mountains will rise.

Minute forests will grow.

Fish will swim in the waters.

Animals will appear on the land.

Birds will sing in the trees.

Its surface will teem with life.

At the end of the year,

on the stroke of midnight,

on New Year’s Eve,

I will carry it

to the top of a hill.

I will hold it aloft

and it will rise.

Up into the air

and out… out into space.

As it rises it will grow.

It will become a new world.

For this is

the Millennium Egg.

The Last Plant on Mars

Life was a struggle for the last plant on Mars

but the last plant on Mars didn’t know

there was only one place where conditions were right

for the last plant on Mars to grow.

It was touch and go for the last plant on Mars.

It had found the last patch of good earth.

The last plant on Mars spread its roots in the soil,

and clung on for all it was worth.

The roots of the last plant on Mars searched hard

as they burrowed deep under ground,

and the last plant on Mars found the last drops of water

that would ever on Mars be found.

The last plant on Mars grew glossy green leaves,

then a flower of purest blue.

Then inside the flower of the last plant on Mars

many thousands of tiny seeds grew.

The last plant on Mars turned its face to the sky,

from whence came, with a screeching sound

a man-made machine on a mission to see

if life upon Mars could be found.

The man-made machine spread its flexible feet

and made itself ready to land.

It landed on top of the last plant on Mars,

and crushed it to mush in the sand.

The Holly Tree

The Holly Tree

As the North Wind tore

the snowballs from

her frozen palms,

the holly tree screamed.

Her fingers reached

to clutch them as

the urgent air

crumbled them

away on the wind.

She cried as she

turned her head to watch,

then, shaking the crumbs

from her crinkled skirts,

turned into the tumult

of frenzied flakes,

stretched out spiky fingers,

and waited.

A Margo Moment

         Country Girl

We both adore the country.

We moved here from the town.

We made this wild garden

once we’d cut the forest down.

There was just a muddy stream here,

that we had to have diverted,

and the quaintest little chapel

that my husband got converted.

It makes a lovely summer house

since we took the end wall out,

and fitted those new windows

I was telling you about.

It  was covered in funny pictures,

very old and badly done.

I think the way we’ve painted it

 bright pink is rather fun!

We built the house entirely

from the local stone,

and those funny little roof tiles

cost a fortune on their own.

But the barking of the foxes

disturbs me in the night

and all the birds start chirping

as soon as it gets light.

Every year about this time

the kitchen swarms with frogs

and those horrid leggy spiders

keep frightening my dogs.

So we’re packing up and moving

to a penthouse in the city.

I’m leaving all the garden gnomes,

although they’re rather pretty.

I’ll rather miss my wellingtons.

They make me look the part.

It’s such a shame we’re moving.

I’m a country girl at heart!

Still musing on colour

The world is all colours

The world is all colours

exploding slowly,

spinning and swirling

around my head,

shards of reality

reflecting back at me

a million mirages,

fragmented.

The world is aroma

of every memory

layer upon layer

of complex smells,

zigzagging over

the time-space continuum,

concentric sensations

in bottomless wells.

The world is music,

softly surrendering

sounds of sensations

of sadness and joy,

each creature screaming,

its voice interweaving

expressing its presence

in loving alloy.

The world is a poem,

wordlessly spoken,

a caress of the voice,

of the call of creation,

a lyrical longing

to share in the symphony,

the anthem of

self-perpetuation.

The world is a cuddle,

a shaking awakening,

a challenge to battle,

to absorb and collate,

a spiralling hug

of tender sensation,

an infinite expression

of feelings innate.

The world is a riddle,

a cosmic conundrum,

a mosaic pavement

of mystical signs,

an unfathomable ocean

of mathematical equations,

a wonderful whirlpool

of fractal designs.

I see the world so brightly, my heart dances

Child of the Rainbow

I’m a child of the rainbow.

I was born in a storm,

as the sun and the rain met together.

I’m a creature of light.

I am made of bright colours

that glow in the stormy weather.

When the sun glows deep orange

In skies of dark blue,

as the heavy black thunderclouds form,

when I see silver flashes

and hear the sky roar,

I go out and run through the storm.

Down the soft violet hillsides

the rivers run red.

Green trees are washed clean by the rain.

When the golden sun breaks

through the indigo clouds,

I can dance in the rainbow again.

From my collection called "The Dishcloth."

The Dishcloth

Scurrying, hurrying,

running through the night,

hiding, crying, knowing

there’s nowhere to go but home,

nothing out here to fear,

nothing compared to you,

pacing the room,

fuming, waiting

for my return.

I didn’t mean to anger you.

I have added to my sin

the additional crime of flight,

of frightened flight.

I should have stayed

to face your rage.

I was afraid!

I understand how bad I am,

how slow to learn,

how worthless.

I try, I try, to do it right,

but tonight,

I wiped the working surface

with the wrong cloth.

I felt your wrath

behind me as you watched.

I knew I’d used

the wrong cloth.

My feet will not carry me

as I creep through sleeping streets.

I see the light shining

through my door.

I’m sorry I ran.

Please let me in.

Don’t hug me so hard.

It’s my fault, my fault.

I’ll stand here and listen.

I know I’ve done wrong.

Now you’re frowning, glowering,

towering over me.

I’m cowering and cringing.

But I’m listening, I’m listening,

as you explain once again,

as you go slowly over,

the system with the dishcloths.

In memory of winter

Dawn

On pre-dawn banks of frozen lake

the silver swans asleep.

The trees, all stark with icicles,

stark shelter for the sheep.

Now through the skeleton branches

an icy east wind blows

the frost from black lace tree tops,

disturbing rooks and crows.

Their strident cries declare the dawn

as silver turns to gold,

and red-gold fox slinks stealthily,

eyes screwed against the cold.

Across the chilly hillside

many other creatures pass,

betrayed by clear dark footprints

cut clean in frosty grass.

In the distance there, the village,

still in sleeping silhouette,

and in the cosy cottages

nobody stirring yet.

The valley stretches languidly,

as colours one by one

flow liquid o’er the landscape,

awakened by the sun.

An ode to bacon

To my heart’s desire

I dream of bacon,

‘tho I swore

to never more

dead flesh devour.

Resolve is shaken,

craving for

crispy bacon.

What strange power

can bacon have

that ever more,

when other meats

I once foreswore

don’t tempt me now,

but pain that grips

me, when I eat

my egg and chips

will drive me mad.

I long to savour

once more, that

tantalizing flavour

of bacon, crisp

and hot and greasy.

Who says not eating

meat is easy?

Small Talk

                                     Small Talk

“I write poetry,” I said.  I could see his eyes glaze over.

“I live with my son, on a hill, just outside Dover.”

“Would you like a turkey roll?”  he asked, passing me a plate.

“No, thanks, I don’t eat meat,” I said.  I saw a flash of hate.

“My wife was vegetarian,” he muttered, through his teeth.

“She’s living with a plumber.  They’ve moved to Hampstead Heath.”

“Do you have any children?”  I asked him, while I ate.

He glared at the egg mayonnaise on my plate.

“Oh, yes,” he said, “Three girls we’ve got.  They took their mothers’ side.

They used to visit me a lot, until the parrot died.”

I sipped my gin and tonic, and wondered what to say.

“The C.S.A. has crippled me,” he said, and looked away.

He’d finished all the turkey rolls, and started on the ham.

“She was into all this “New Age” stuff.  Our marriage was a sham.

She used to spend a fortune at the health-food shop each week.”

“They sell some lovely oils,” I said.  A nerve twitched in his cheek.

“What about your work?” I asked him.  “What is it you do?”

“I buy and sell antiques,” he snapped.  “It wouldn’t interest you.

They’ve got a few nice pieces here.  He’s worth a bob or two!”

“I love this house,” I said.  “They’re really lucky with the view.”

He stared out of the window at the valleys and the hills.

He said, “This wretched heartburn!  I forgot to bring my pills.”

He had another glass of wine.  I got another gin.

He said “Don’t eat the chicken!  She’s put too much garlic in!”

He finished up the chicken, while I nibbled on a carrot.

I said, to fill the awkward pause, “What colour was the parrot?”

Wolf by Geraldine Aldridge

Wolf

I stroked a wolf.

following orders.

“Fist

not fingers.”

The wolf sniffed,

then licked my hand.

I heard a gasp.

I fell into those eyes,

 as gold as warm welsh gold

 from rugged mountains,

the colour of sunlit honey,

amber and rich.

I felt in that moment

more wolf more wolf

than ever I’ve felt human.

And something said, inside my head,

“I am Wolf.”

“Stroke his belly,

not his back,”

horsehair coarse,

tweed hacking-jacket hackles,

golden tufts woven with grey and sand.

Pinched face,

leaning, and lean,

an animal untameable.

I felt a longing, un-nameable,

a feeling I don’t get with my own kind,

to share his mind.

From a book of poems I am writing about abusive relationships and bullying.

Always in the way

She was always in the way.

Always in the way.

Even while she slept, somehow,

She was always in the way.

Always in the way,

at the beginning of the day

when she brought a cup of tea,

but she never used a tray.

Always in the way,

His music began to play.

Above it, he could never hear

What she was trying to say.

She was always in the way,

from when he first came to stay,

even though she tried to please him 

She was always in the way

                                          

She was always in the way

He would often have to say

“Get out of my way!

Why are you always in the way?”

She was always in the way

even on their wedding day,

Even though she promised

to love, honour and obey.

She was always in the way

even when she passed away,

he missed an important football match

the day she passed away.

She was always in the way,

as he grew old and grey.

As he tried to sleep, her memory

was always in the way.