The sky is on the beach!

When you go to the beach and the tide is running out over flat sand, the sky is kind of clear. That sky, the blue and the clouds, are all reflected on the wet, flat sand. That. We saw this at Newport on my birthday, and I came across a similar scene today, when the sun finally came out again, at Aberporth. What joy to see that sun.

Reflection

Earth of light

sky of earth

(from Dancing the Siguiriya, by Federico Garcia Lorca)

The sky is on the beach,

all the blue heavens are there at our feet.

Still and silent on a winter-weathered strand,

earth and space have contrived to meet.

The entire sky is shining on the sand,

there before us, spread in front of our feet.

The world is upside down,

someone turned it all around.

Someone turned it all around,

the world is upside down.

There before us, just in front of our feet,

the entire blue sky is shining on the sand.

Earth and space have contrived to meet,

still and silent on the winter weathered strand,

all the blue heavens are there at our feet.

The sky is on the beach.

Invitation to gardens in winter

Invitation to gardens in winter

 

Pines from Mexico, with needles soft as feathers,

their cones as big as fat bananas all over the ground.

Scarlet cotoneaster berries, bright as sunshine,

hang above frosty shadowed corners.

There are plane trees, London planes as big as a city,

branches full of fruit against a startled blue sky.

Beside them we will watch the river rolling by.

We will sit on a bench in the slow morning sun

to share fresh apples and sandwiches of cheese and salad,

while we are watched by a pair of hopeful geese.

And you will see more trees than you can ever count.

Here are the tallest eucalyptus,

covered in the longest strips of subtle coloured bark

around twisted trunks, from lightest yellow to greenest dark.

I will tell you about the perfumes of heady wintersweet,

fragrant daphne, and all the honeyed scents of this season.

We’ll find oak, elm, cedar, Zelkova,

and the oldest oriental plane on the planet.

You can talk to me of this world of trees,

else how will I know their names and places,

whether they grow in valleys or wide open spaces.

And we’ll walk by grasses, tall in golden slanting sun,

where long shadows of bamboo stand out clear

against the wide spread of green lawns;

and dogwood stems stand proud in crowns of red.

Geese will shout their calls over the still frozen mere

and we’ll watch coots totter on ice, unsure of their ground, 

while we wonder at all the treasures that we have found.

As afternoon draws down its shades and the bitter cold lingers

we’ll take a turn in the Palm House to thaw our frozen fingers,

where we’ll drown in warm scents of tropical rainforest.

At the end we’ll aim for the café where temptation waited all day.

You know, you simply have to come to the gardens –

not just for all the trees, the grasses and the lake,

but without you, who else will I have to share the cake?

 

Birthday poem

Woman in a red chair, Pablo Picasso

Here's a bit of a Birthday Poem.

Body

This body’s not finished yet.

It has scars, wrinkles and veins,

and that’s only on the surface,

even worse troubles lurk underneath –

its brain forgets things,

all those names disappear;

its lungs get short of air,

the blood flows sluggish,

there’s cholesterol gathering,

joints ache and stick,

knees pop and creak,

but it ain’t finished yet.

This body’s got work to do.

There are more hills to climb,

lakes to swim, bridges to cross,

woodland paths to walk;

Two Nudes, Pablo Picasso

there is sea air to breathe in deep.

Stories to be read, words to write,

more friends to laugh with,

and many more people to hug,

animals to stroke, kids to cuddle,

more peaches to suck, berries to savour,

cake to be cut.

None of it is finished yet.

This body’s got work to do.

There are fires to stare into,

races to run, gates to jump, trees to climb,

fences to cross, fields to wander in,

swings to swing on,

more journeys to make,

there's more music to bring joy to the heart.

And there are hands to hold,

bodies to caress,

lovers to kiss,

secret places to be explored,

so much more love to be made.

 

This poem was written to the Week 3 prompt in this great little book. Week 3 - Exposing Yourself - happens to coincide with my birthday. I am revisiting the 'Write a Poem a Week' prompts this year. Writing some new material and revisiting work started when 52 was run as an online project in 2014 by Jo Bell. 52 is on Twitter: https://twitter.com/52poetry
and the book is available here:

 

http://ninearchespress.com/poetry-collections/52writeapoemaweekstartnowkeepgoing.html