12 Nov 2012

Dark Moon, November

Dark moon. Damp. Mist. A sense of waiting, time suspended. A time for inner reflection, solitary walks. Noticing the astounding beauty in the most ordinary, overlooked things. Marsh grass in the sodden field at the back of my house. The colours and forms are amazing if you stop to look properly, sink down into the earth of your being, centre your energy.

8 Nov 2012


 I'm glad I was a child before all that health and safety stuff was invented. We took tadpoles to school, and sticky buds and dead adders. We learned about the real stuff, that was sometimes messy and dangerous, but then so is life. This poem is about a profound truth that I learned when I was eight. Nowadays it would not be allowed, but then, how do children learn about death if we no longer welcome it to our hearth? Would today's children even know it was a redwing that they had found?

When hedges dripped blood
and frost crept thin over summer’s last breath,
we found a redwing in the schoolyard,
eyes sharp with fear,
shattered wing trailing.

All afternoon we whispered spells,
above a cradle of leaves;
stroked the bark brown feathers,
the flash of red beneath the wing, until,

just before home time,
the fire went suddenly
from the wild sloe eye, and we

stared curiously at death;
seeing it was weird and beautiful,
coming upon us like a drift of snow.