All Saints Church, Piddletrenthide. (Copyright Mike Searle, Creative Commons Licence.)
I love to see Yew
in the graveyard
and this Church
is one peace
of the puzzle
Open doors
and not a soul
insight
Looking East
thru stained glass
The Sun illuminates
His Halo
All faces are glowing
and turned towards
The Light
I love to see the pews
covered in cushions
to kneel on,
sown in scenes of
local life & symbols
of inner life
Choose Celtic
cross & circle,
return to childhood
on innocent knees
and talk to God,
as Life, with ease
Adoration
Confession
Thanksgiving
Supplication
ACTS in me
*
Climbing cross-section
cut to the bone
Chalk & Flint
in the green
grass of home
Walk
Stone Age veins
and fall into
timeless dreams
Cross stile
into vast expanse
of churned crystal earth
and wonder how many
accidents are ancient tools
Follow vague
15 year old directions
“To the far end of the field,
To the right of a prominent Ash.”
Sit and eat an apple
in the Sunshine
Praise Ra! while
A Jealous God
with guilt grabs
atension
Imagination expands
Beyond Our Star
to the bearded
Wizard Puppeteer
Beyond Space + Time
Dismiss
The Theatre of Thoughts
and walk over Horizons
Humpback
?
Blackthorn Hedges
Sharply silhouetted
A Crown of Thorns
Against the Sun
The Ash lays down its arms
The Giant Boughs
we are swept away…
Over Horizons hump
Snake-back shaggy
Caterpillar wiggles
cradling Plush
in plush surrounds
Over Horizons hump
The Wizard Puppeteer
hungers for lunch
Delves a dessert spoon
into the luscious earth
and leaves
a hidden valley
Church Hill littered
with Trees sprung
from Gracious gobblings
dribble
We walk the rim
just outside
the living memory
of heavenly
snackings
Stopped dead
in our tracks
NOW suddenly snaps
as a Roe Deer
Barks & Bounds
An eruption!
that snuck in
when we weren’t looking
The aftermath
quieter than silence
The striped pheasant feather
an apparition at my feet
ahead of us
…entrancing…
The Wood
*
Apprehension
amplified by absense
in the presence of
an open gate
with electric-wire
at our ankles
Conflicting
messages…
Moving on
is only ever
a short step away
A step we take
and soon the still woods
are alive with darting motion
but only for a moment
blurred shadows of beasts
and birds, a memory
almost before
they occurred
We have never seen
such life in a wood
now so still
every branch we crack
and crunchy leaf we crumble
is shrill!
Unknown persons
occasionally dissapearing
in the corners of our eyes
Nature is so alive
it feels unnatural
to be present at all
but we can’t turn away
from the moment
This wood
may belong to life
but it is claimed
by a round of
woven-wire-hexagons
and the only way out
is the way we came in
*
Carry on rising
to the Ridge
Lone bare Oaks
Elemental descriptions
as the Earth pours like Water
into the Air
Not so lonely, or bare,
drawn to climb
we look closer
Ecosystems of Moss
and Lichen populated
by shy insects
Small brittle cities
in pastel shades
of ground & sky
A spongy carpet
upon which
it is a joy to lie
to stretch green flesh
on brown bark bones
a welcome home
“I hope we didn’t hurt you
in ways that aren’t a joy
to repair.”
my mind speaks to the tree
as a money spider absails
on his invisible thread
making me quietly proud
I jump down
and on my way out
a branch gives me
a strong yet friendly clout
My reactionary frown
relaxes into a smile
while I ponder
the joy of repair
*
Reach the crest
of the Wessex Ridgeway
and enter once more
the wood
Our footsteps slide in the mud
for life in these parts
must conform
to the slope
Pheasants endlessly
keeping ahead
In this wood
is wheat & water
to keep the food fed
I take a log
resting on a metal drum
and BANG! just once
I am shocked by the swiftness
of a startled pheasant
as she hurtles heftily into the air
the sound of her panicked wings
merging with the beat
of her drawn-out cry
A commotion of chattering tits
in a confusion of twisted brambles
draws us in
A feathered fawn bolt-from-the-blue
rushes in and back out
in a moment of beautiful violence
Shotguns discharge
in the distance
The beater’s yell & batter
shatters our calm
Paranoid fantasies
are fun to breed
but not to believe
We walk as we run
from blood-red promises
steaming in the Sun
*
The Countryside Code
can make leaving a field
an odorous load
as you search for
an exit allowed
The yin of barbed wire
is well received
Darkness is but a turn away
behind the greying cloud
relief is breathed
as map orientates to territory
and route home is mentally ploughed
*
Walking through the quiet streets
of this Plush little village
Yew are standing by the road
Beckoning in tweaked mystique
growing upwards
beyond the gate
Another gate
beyond the first:
Two behemoth stumps
dressed in moss
their circumference
stretching the imagination
Yew are the living dead
transmuting the dusty flesh
of soil, rooted in bone
intimately grasping
our fading memories
ressurected above ground
Growing upwards
Yew are
The Church
*
Church of St John the Baptist, Plush. (Copyright Mike Searle, Creative Commons Licence.)