Day 66: The end

Oh how

I have realised through this task

That much of the wisdom

That comes tumbling into me

Through senses

Alert and loving of this precious life

That if I do not write it

immediately

Down onto hard copy

The truths disappear

And I am left with

Nothing but

Sorrow

That what could have been

The very

Greatest

Poems

Filled with words of truth

That could have saved us all

End up being about

The weather

And birds

And apple blossom

The

Metanarrative

Of my life

Right now

Is not so deep as to be swayed even a little

If a squabble breaks out

Or the dog pees on the carpet

Or if a chicken egg

Smashes on the kitchen floor

And the toddler runs

Straight through

Gone have the lofty plans

To manage a poem a day

How about five-in-one

Playing constant catch-up

By looking through photos and

Giving thanks for snatched

Beauty

Captured so I can build a memory around it

So that I can distil something of this strange and ordinary life

To you, dear reader

So that through this

We may

Possibly

Hold onto something

No more daily doses of

Watered-down musings

Instead: I go back to what I know:

Downloads and magic

Flowing when Awen comes

I am no poet

There is no skill here

But I AM a conduit

Of which I am glad

Day 60: Herbal remedy

Soothing

Healing

Chewing

Loving

Plantain

One of the herbs I have loved

Since I first

Could see

And decipher the greens

Of the world

From one another

And I then realised

How little I know

For how hard can it be to know one

Green from another?

Healing from harm?

Cleansing from accumulation?

Not so hard

It turns out

But fear,

Oh yes this will stop me in my tracks

For many decades

As it turned out,

From learning

What do you fear?

I fear the fear of turning

Toward the not-knowing

And realising

I was welcome all along

Day 59: My birthday tower

And so here it is

and the day dawns

to the truth that I am one year more

more than I was

before

 

 

The river calls

Two new duck families

Barely two days old

 

 

More old

more wise?

more me

 

 

 

The spiral continues upwards

like a staircase in the tower

that I dream abut often

clinging to the stone walls

I climb

 

 

 

 

Over the old ground I go

yet time and again

I am higher

I see more

same place:

different perspective

 

 

 

 

I dream that the stones steps

are worn away

crumbling

I lose my hold and

my stomach lurches

with vertigo

 

 

 

wooden stakes

replace the steps

but even they

are rotten and slippery

I lie

prone on my stomach

clinging

 

 

 

 

Yet on I go

upwards and onwards

 

 

 

 

I never fall

 

 

 

 

I have not got to the top yet

I feel the walls

cold and strong

as I climb

 

 

 

The tower

Is

 

 

I am just the traveller

 

 

 

 

Day 58: Dreams and visions

It is dawning

Slowly

Through the treacle of incompetence

That my words count

And I should be writing what I am learning

Like the truth that Spirit Animal

Gazed at me

Waiting at the edge of the glade

For me to enter

Or the doorway

Made from oak

Hanging suspended

By nothing

And through it I glimpse

A mountain top

And a chalice

And air

Pure and crisp blows in my eyes

And they water

With its sting

And with love

Or the wild garlic

Whose scent I can only occasionally catch

So I know I am both human and not

I do not

Do things like everyone else

Or the mugwort

Sprouted by my garden bench

Whose leaves I caress like the dog’s ears

And who whispers dreams and visions as I sit

And tells me it’s time to step into them

Fully

If

I

Dare

Day 57: The air that forms around a poem

Is there benefit to writing

A poem a day?

When the wisdom I learn

Is left

Unwritten

And unshared?

Even when I write those words

A child

No,

Two

Shout loudly and call me back

From the place where words are formed

And once again

Lessons from the multiworlds

Leave me

They do not even leave a trace

And I am left

Bereft

With words on the page

That do not even remotely

Resemble

That which I hear from the hawthorns

Or the ruined mill

They instead

Take a form

Which I am meant to honour anyway

Yet the true message:

Gone

I have taken journeys

Deep into my psyche

And I bring back

Magic

Truth

Power

But I leave them

Somewhere close to dreams

In the air that forms around a poem

Day 56: Birthday alien

I began the day

At the old Sycamore

Given to the village

To commemorate something big

Like

Colonialism

And organised takeover

Yet see how much life it holds

Hawthorn and pigeon

Crows and ivy

Weave and cling to its enormous

Being

It was my mother’s birthday

And the cat

Modern tech

Linked the family

Across the globe we laughed

And I threatened to write a book

About our memories

At the old mill again

Ravaged and robbed

By time and people

Now it is a tumble of stone

And hints of watercourses

The kids adore it

Racing across the meadow

And into the fast water

Finally

At the close of day

I watched Alien

And watched their faces

When John Hurt’s

Stomach

Exploded

They weren’t expecting it

Even when aliens are involved

We never expect such horror

Until it’s done

And he is lying

Dead on the supper table

The alien fled

The human gore remains

We can but see the past and learn

Of the pain when what we love

Is taken

Day 55: Buttercups

Come on, mummy!

The buttercups are waiting

I want to see their glowing faces

Touch their stalks

And make a bouquet for daddy

Listen to the crows,

Can you hear them?

They are saying

Yaaar!

Thoughts have dragged at my heels

Of late

Grief and sorrow

Memories of

Foot and mouth

Piles of carcasses

Smoking beacons of failure

Suicidal farmers

I worked in fields

In Eire

Then

One case they had

With

Disinfectant everywhere

White overall

And new boots

Keep the farmers safe

Keep the animals alive

Be careful and

Know just how powerful you are

But here:

Blighty

Blighted

“There was no other way”

I could see the pyres

Burning

As I came into land

Going to the meadow

To see the buttercups growing

Is just what I need

Cows would make beautiful butter

From these

Day 54: Cross-over days

I have noticed cross-over days

When one thing holds my attention

Like bright starred daffodils

So robust and sure of their time

Allocated by divine Order

Then bluebells

Ascending,

Bursting forth

One diminishes as one ascends

But for a glorious day

Both hold beauty in their beings

And bless me as I gaze upon them

Like the cherry tree

Soft delicate petals tower high

Beneath them leaves burst

While the apples who surround her

Take more time with their blossom

Then

For one or two days

Both cherry and apple

Gloriously

Beautifully and perfectly

Show me their most delicate parts

Before cherry drops her petals

And apple ascends into full pink perfection

Now the river is covered with discarded husks

No more need for the sheath

Where once new leaves hid

The wind has dispersed all need

For protection

The river takes this unnecessary fibre

Far out to sea

Where it will sink

To be made into food for monsters

And returned back to our table

Perhaps

If it weren’t for plate tectonics

Mother Planet

Would have silted up

Eons ago

Now is a messy

Glorious

Time of year

Day 53: Weeping blackbird

Do not disturb me

I can barely move

I do not wish to

Let me sit

Quiet and unhindered

As the pages softly turn

And the wind scatters apple petals

Across the garden

I am holding something

So small and secret

That I cannot see it

With waking eyes

The feeling

Perhaps

But I dare not say it aloud

Directly

I cannot name it

For to name is to give it power

Despair

Unthought

It sits deep inside

And defuses a taste

Or colour

To everything

So subtle it cannot be seen

Not even violent enough to be fear

Nor boisterous

But gentle

Like a weeping blackbird

Hidden in the bush

Grief takes over

Some days

Day 52: These small days

It grew cold in the night

And we all relished the inward-looking invitation

To wrap up under fleece blankets

And watch unsuitable tv

And Star Wars

A New Hope

We made train tracks

And sang songs about pooing on the toilet

Got annoyed when he didn’t

Beating up ourselves

For not teaching him right

I read and read

An old familiar

About Merlin and magic

I sat on the wicker two-seater

Occasionally lifting my eyes

From the page to look

And marvel at the rare rain

I felt the trees soak up the water

I think I am running out of wisdom to learn

These small days

Of children and food

Of words and trees

Just hold me in their company

With no vast truths to tell

I sit

And wait

Like we all are doing

For something unknown

To both begin and end