January 2015
I have for the past twelve years lived in a quiet little village in Wiltshire, U.K. Village life is centred around a church, a post office and a corner shop. I was born in London and lived there for nearly forty years and as such I now appreciate the slower pace of living here in the countryside. I have always been fascinated by words and how they can be arranged into unlimited permutations. What those arrangements point to depends upon the knowledge/memory held by the reader who then decides on the interpretation given to the text. I have practiced the art of writing poetry for many years. It is an art form that can never be mastered as it is always subject to change, be it the various forms of poetry or the changing thoughts/ideas/concepts of the writer. I have until now had no desire to place any of my previously written poems. My wish now is to start afresh.
Sketches of the Village of Pewsey in Wiltshire, U.K.
The Fallen
To cleave the leaves from the tree,
autumn's crisp bright hustling's.
Assassinated — the fallen spread
a shroud of windswept rustlings.
The View From A Humble Cottage Garden
Skyward — in the early morning cold
hovering against the wind
the common kestrel
swoops a swift descent on its prey —
a bank vole, breakfasting on beetle
and berries beside an age-old oak.
Sight line -- a hedgerow of hawthorn,
brambles, and vines.
The Reverend Dr Westerby
contemplating something or other
in St. Mary's
ice-crystal-covered churchyard.
Steady — the gleam of reflected red-yellow
sunrise in the shards of broken
glasshouse windows.
Sleeping there, under last week's
biting-harsh newspapers,
WW2 veteran Able Seaman Ambrose Morgan.
The Rain Falls Hard
(Waiting for inspiration —
balancing paperclips
on a glass paperweight
likeness
of Shakespeare's head)
The rain falls hard as nails
on the beggar standing in the street
- Counting the hours -
Clock tower in the centre
of an old town square
sounds another hour of a day
wet without a raincoat.
The rain falls hard as nails
on the beggar sitting in the street
- Great wheels turning -
Going nowhere on paths
round and round: passers-by;
their faces silent
with uncomprehending.
The rain falls hard as nails
on the beggar weeping in the street
- "Where is my help?" -
A wish to die
and rise again like Lazarus
in a drier climate: 35N, 33E;
The longitude and latitude of Cyprus.
Nightgown Sky Of Black
The transition from wakefulness to sleep.
Over a Wiltshire village,
antique English shilling moon
and silver sequins sewn
on a nightgown sky of black.
Under a willow tree
in St. Mary's churchyard
gravedigger George Raker
speaks in riddles while working
his shovel and pickaxe.
Seemingly in reply —
flawless, the nightingale's
melodious nocturnal song
from the Wilton Windmill's
four sails flour-white.
Charon the ferryman
waiting by the river Dun
calls for payment to carry
the soul of the newly deceased
from this world to that.
The Church of St. Mary's
From the trellis on the garden wall
in St. Mary's churchyard
rose petals fall
to be dried and used
as wedding ceremony confetti.
Gargoyles and serpents carved
around St. Mary's belfry
stare grotesque
at the maize-yellow-bright worshippers
ears ringing with new testament parables.
A funerary-black carrion crow hops
along St. Mary's row of tombstones
and with its beak
rolls a red currant berry
to the west in imitation of the setting sun.
©2015 Lewis Oakwood