I know I should be tackling the paving

out at the front where the wind is blowing

down from the hills the wind

is blowing, gale force.

In the back garden's warmer wilderness

sheltered by trees, neglected, overgrown

I kneel to make a start, untangling

a bed of herbs.

And its a happy choice of task

for I am cheered no end

and cleansed of Autumn's blues

by cutting back old stems

releasing many green and pungent scents

mingling their magic, marjoram, mint

thyme, sweet cecily, fennel, purple sage.

Aroma Therapy.

watching anxiously

from our dark cave mouth

we huddle, eyes focussed

on the distant ridge.

Then at last, a lightening

of the low sky. Muttering

we creep out into the new dawn.

It has returned to us.

our Lord the Sun

which we had thought killed for ever

by the black cold night.

Now he climbs the sky

and we climb into our day,

hunt, feed, work at our flints

until another Darkness drags away

our shining warming Lord.

Can we be sure of a New Dawn.

As I crawl out from sleep

still clutching to me shreds

and shards of dreams,

I glimpse on waking

a bright triangle of light

between the curtains'pull.

Dawn beckons and I rise to meet it's gaze.

The barn before me

holds a weather-vane

gilded by early sun.

Beyond, huge horse-chestnut's

iridescent green. A black dog

trots beside the farmer's stride.

I glance into the mirror

and remember yesterday.

What's come between

those hours of dusk and dawn?

Sleep slides its shutter down

but leaves a memory

like the bright curtain gap.

Yesterday I flew from Ireland

above clouds solid as Antarctica

leaving the greening rain,

the camaraderie, the spilling words

and words and words. I cheer myself with

'I will go again'

and next time see a rainbow

span the southern view.

The Bootleg Beatles in a London park

I'd heard them once before and they are good.

We'd booked our tickets, brought a picnic lunch

when rain began.

We ate beneath the station, overhang

and cracked a sparkling bottle, two old tramps

among the litter, keeping our eyes fixed upon

the threatening sky.

It was still raining when we reached the field.

The stage protected by it's canopy was lit.

An audience of hundreds grouped about

on the wet grass.

under umbrellas, some in folding chairs

others on groundsheets, leaning back-to-back

supported by the expectation of delight.

Power of nostalgia.

And it was great. The music wonderful.

The four performers brought the past to life

and oh! those songs are really superfine.

The rain came down.

Dancing under our wet hair and shining eyes,

arms linked with those of anyone nearby,

the rhythm in our heads and feet.

Rain petered out.

The projected onto the pale canopy

glowing against the purple evening sky

processed a scatter of round smiling faces

edged with flame.

We were encouraged by optimistic words

basked in the music's warmth and gratitude

singing in damp darkness edged by dripping trees

'Here Comes the Sun'.

- on Prose with my chaperone

M Smythe 80

The rain-clouds lifted and the fierce wind dropped.

We wrapped up warmly, gloved, and wellie-shod

equipped with ancient words we should have learned,

a can to rattle with a wooden spoon.

We carried blazing torches on long poles

banging and rattling through the puddled lanes

(our leader blew a Crumhorn he had made)

to visit gardens where the apples grow.

We came to wassail a village apple trees

surrounded them and tapping them with sticks

entreating each to prosper bloom and bear.

Tucked cider-soaked toeast in among the twigs-

the robins' treat. The men among us lifted up their hats

beseeching of the trees a crop to fill - caps

buckets, baskets and some left to make

a precious little heap under the stairs.

A bonfire greeted us at 'Silverdale'

it's golden sparks rising to a cloudless sky

where Venus shone alone.

There we were welcomed in for food and drink.

Once home I went out to my apple tree

asking for bounty this year, giving thanks

for last years crop. Those 'Greensleeves'

could suggest another song.

- on Prose with my chaperone

M Smythe 80

The afternoon sun

rides on my right shoulder

From my left foot

a long shadow springs

Low light gilds the ridges

of distant curving fields

Frost fingers thin shadows

from a stand of trees

Flints littering the track

scatter underfoot,

scoured by the light,

hard edged and ancient

Bones beneath the tumulus

push up

harebells, thrift, coltsfoot

and ancestral memories.

Shadows excavate concavities

full of old secrets

Before the flint, the sea.

The hills boom.

- on prose with my chaperone

M Smythe 80

Nasturtiums burn

beyond the wreckage

twisted brambles

sharp as barbed wire.

I lug, 'bugger'ing as I stumble

to pile the stabbing stems

of buddleia cut from the sky

onto a steep heap

High growing Summer

Beans climbed like magic

hollyhocks rocketed

colour blazed. Amazing.

But now growth slows

and I must snip and saw

through the old wood

to feed the bonfire

and clear the ground

for Spring

- on prose with my chaperone

M Smythe 80

Hello I am 80 and some years more.

I am here with my chaperone who is kindly typing my poetry into the modern world for me.

I dearly wish to know if it is pleasing.

Thank you

M. Smythe

I see a parti-coloured hat

bells ringing from the curly points

I see beneath it rosy cheeks

eyes creased in mirth

I see a distant past

the days of Merrie England

street festivities

mimicking courtly entertainment

in great vaulted halls

torches flaming on the panelled walls.

Revels happen still when hearts are light

and people gather for festivities.

Revels mean music,dancing,cheekiness

pleasure in convention’s overthrow.

Revels will chase the gloomy blues away

bring rainbow colours to humdrum life

and make allowances.

Revelery beckons inthe onlooker

puts a spring in the step,tickles

the funnybone. Benign contagion.

- typed into prose by my chaperone

M Smythe 80