Poetry
My poetry is featured on my blog as often as I write it (which is not often enough!) Here are a couple of examples.
Modern Neopagan
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52,
I saw it streaming by as my Berlingo drove past.
It might have been daffodils, or crocuses, or Spring,
But I couldn’t quite be sure – I was going too fast.
And I felt the seasons turning, and the coming May Queen –
But I’m a modern neopagan, and the lights had turned green.
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52
Where it looks like tiny figures took a paintbrush to the land,
And they stood on ghostly ladders and took Otherworldly hues
To create a splash of brilliance with nimble fairy hands.
And it lifted up my spirit and it carried me away –
But I’m a modern neopagan, and it was a busy day.
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52,
And I’ll need my iPhone sat-nav to find it again,
It's somewhere out between the Tesco and the roundabout,
But the X that marks the treasure isn’t in the fast lane.
And I couldn’t find a parking space convenient enough.
I’m a modern neopagan, and the rush-hour is rough.
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52,
A hoard of wealth you can’t get near at fifty miles an hour.
No salary nor lottery could buy me all that gold,
But I didn’t cash my ticket in for a moment with a flower.
My day was timed precisely for efficiency and speed.
I’m a modern neopagan with a lot of mouths to feed.
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52,
But the diary says the Equinox is not until next week.
So I just kept right on driving, past the glory of the season
And the turning of the Wheel was just a blurry vernal streak.
But if Spring passes me by and I forget to seek the jewel,
I’m a modern neopagan – and my next day off is Yule.
So tomorrow, you might see me crawling underneath the railings
That divide Life from the road (and see daylight dance with night),
Heading out towards the forest, where a patch of feral daisies
Waits in quiet anticipation of the symmetry of light --
Or you might see me obliviously going on my way.
I’m a modern neopagan, and it’s only one more day.
Forgotten
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.
You live between the dawn and the first ray of the sunrise,
Between the breath of wind and the briefest movement of a leaf,
Deep between the planting and the first glimpse of the shoot.
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.
You are the ruined temple in which we wish to dwell,
We have a use for every scarred and fractured part of you.
What need have we of perfect shrines and shining golden statues
When the mountains and the meadows and the rivers are our playground?
But there is not a sanctuary like you in all the world.
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.
You are our hands and feet in the hidden, buried places.
You are our priests to people abandoned to the darkness,
To the displaced and the destitute, the lost and the forgotten,
In the shopfronts under blankets, in the crumbling council towers,
And at midnight in the dark, deserted station, going nowhere.
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.
In the provinces forgotten, in the lands neglected, missing,
In the shifting sands, the inconsistent coastlines of the sea shore,
In the flooded fields where farmers wait to start again from nothing,
In the hedgerows of the city and along the buried rivers.
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.
Modern Neopagan
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52,
I saw it streaming by as my Berlingo drove past.
It might have been daffodils, or crocuses, or Spring,
But I couldn’t quite be sure – I was going too fast.
And I felt the seasons turning, and the coming May Queen –
But I’m a modern neopagan, and the lights had turned green.
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52
Where it looks like tiny figures took a paintbrush to the land,
And they stood on ghostly ladders and took Otherworldly hues
To create a splash of brilliance with nimble fairy hands.
And it lifted up my spirit and it carried me away –
But I’m a modern neopagan, and it was a busy day.
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52,
And I’ll need my iPhone sat-nav to find it again,
It's somewhere out between the Tesco and the roundabout,
But the X that marks the treasure isn’t in the fast lane.
And I couldn’t find a parking space convenient enough.
I’m a modern neopagan, and the rush-hour is rough.
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52,
A hoard of wealth you can’t get near at fifty miles an hour.
No salary nor lottery could buy me all that gold,
But I didn’t cash my ticket in for a moment with a flower.
My day was timed precisely for efficiency and speed.
I’m a modern neopagan with a lot of mouths to feed.
There’s a golden flash of colour on the A52,
But the diary says the Equinox is not until next week.
So I just kept right on driving, past the glory of the season
And the turning of the Wheel was just a blurry vernal streak.
But if Spring passes me by and I forget to seek the jewel,
I’m a modern neopagan – and my next day off is Yule.
So tomorrow, you might see me crawling underneath the railings
That divide Life from the road (and see daylight dance with night),
Heading out towards the forest, where a patch of feral daisies
Waits in quiet anticipation of the symmetry of light --
Or you might see me obliviously going on my way.
I’m a modern neopagan, and it’s only one more day.
Forgotten
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.
You live between the dawn and the first ray of the sunrise,
Between the breath of wind and the briefest movement of a leaf,
Deep between the planting and the first glimpse of the shoot.
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.
You are the ruined temple in which we wish to dwell,
We have a use for every scarred and fractured part of you.
What need have we of perfect shrines and shining golden statues
When the mountains and the meadows and the rivers are our playground?
But there is not a sanctuary like you in all the world.
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.
You are our hands and feet in the hidden, buried places.
You are our priests to people abandoned to the darkness,
To the displaced and the destitute, the lost and the forgotten,
In the shopfronts under blankets, in the crumbling council towers,
And at midnight in the dark, deserted station, going nowhere.
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.
In the provinces forgotten, in the lands neglected, missing,
In the shifting sands, the inconsistent coastlines of the sea shore,
In the flooded fields where farmers wait to start again from nothing,
In the hedgerows of the city and along the buried rivers.
You are forgotten people of forgotten gods.