Tuesday 27 November 2012

Freedom

Onto the light fitting the captive sparrow flew
Leaving trails of liquid fear in her wake.
Clinging, embracing her temporary refuge from
Tormented flight, eyes half closed, beak half open,
Panting in time to the rise and fall of her downy breast.
Strange, airless and unnatural, the white walls
Besieged her, the open window guarded by a billowing predator
That sought to ensnare her on the wing.
Through terror-dream vision she perceived her home dimension.
The cool breeze beckoned and the azure heaven awaited as with
Courage that would shame an eagle, the tiny fledgling
Fluttered, fell onto the weather-worn sill and with
No backward glance, exchanged the insensibility of her
Suffocating confinement for the sweet vital breath of the
Garden air.
© JEFT 1996

Monday 19 November 2012

Quarry Town

Spiralling flocks of migrating birds rise high
Soaring above the timeless beauty of the limestone valley.
Swirling clouds of grey quarry dust descends
Down onto the gleamless town.
It is Autumn.
Nature now, before the fall of Winter’s hoary curtain
Acts out the Finale for yet another year.
Hawthorns and elderberries, dressed for the show,
Dance amidst copper leaves from burnished trees,
Falling and drifting, blanketing the frost chilled fields.

All things bright and beautiful.

In the stone town, houses huddle together
Scant protection from the threatening storms.
In their midst, a yellow refuse van, glimpse seen, weaves
In and out, out and in, shuttling to and fro
Through the threads of endless grey.
All is still. Hushed.
The silence breaks.
The quarry stirs and belches, spewing rock from its belly,
Manna to the mechanical parasites who pounce on the fresh meal,
Gnawing and tearing, gulping down huge mouthfuls.
Dogs bark, unseen.

All creatures great and small.

The school lies empty by the roadside.
Displaced limestone broods where children once played
Growing, spreading, burying.
Praying for a reprieve, a nearby cottage sits neglected,
Its inner life force removed to the cemetery, by the quarry.
Dust to dust.
By the tombstones, a small chapel crouches by the wall
Indistinguishable from cow sheds on the landscape.
Refuges for all God’s creatures.
The church in the town advertises bingo on the service boards.

All things wise and wonderful.

Down the mud-streaked road, and old man hobbles and hops
Avoiding the blank, cheerless eyes of the quarry hydra.
He reaches sanctuary in The Rising Sun pub
Symbol of hope amidst the enveloping gloom.
Another day. Another explosion dissecting the living body of the land.
Monsters roar. Hills shudder.
Wind moans. Dogs whimper.
Earth sighs.
The black birds fly away, mourning.

The Lord  God made them all.

©1986

Saturday 17 November 2012

End Days

Stone November sky hangs heavy and sullen,
Cold and damp as a church crypt and just as merry.
God! Even the seagulls overhead are quiet, wings
Sagging as they cut through the ice-laden rain that
Falls on the bare land laced with drifting wood smoke.
Somewhere in the distance dogs bark and my soul lurches,
Searches for a memory misplaced but not entirely forgotten,
When on a day such as this I sat as still as I do now
Observing the dying days of the year, mouldering leaves
Underfoot and the frozen, nipped, muffled faces of those
Passing to the echoes of mournful howls.
©JEFT 2007

Friday 26 October 2012

Dismantling the Past

Here’s the china tea set bought many years ago
From that antique shop on the green – now swathed
In bubble-wrap and placed in a cardboard box along
With other porcelain memories.
The Paddington Bear I bought for mum
From my first wage packet ,resplendent in his red wellies.
Embroidered cushions fashioned by an aunt as a present one year,
Sit on chairs soon to leave these rooms of reminiscences.
Of birthdays and Christmases gone by; Easters with their bonnet parades,
Simnel cakes and happy family laughter.
The birth of children, our wedding day and my mothers last journey,
Fastened into containers for life anew elsewhere.
Open a draw or cupboard and small treasures emerge into the light,
Worthless to others maybe – to me priceless, for everything here
Tells a story; has been on a passage through time and played its part
In the history of this house, this home, my family.
Old photographs and ancestral  records in biscuit tins perch
On top of bags, decorations, holiday souvenirs and an old iron.
Bottles of whisky for gifts (my father doesn’t like the stuff)
Sit under the hanging remnants of my mothers clothes
Destined, like the others, for the charity shop.
The task takes for ever as each piece is lovingly handled.
The old, the broken, the chipped are discarded or kept
Sorted and wrapped and labelled or binned.
Seventy odd years of worldly goods divided into three piles;
My fathers, mine and the unrequired.
So easy then to dismantle the past?
My heart says not.

©JEFT 2007

Thursday 25 October 2012

Being Eleven


You’re moving on - another hurdle passed, and as you grow
Life is teaching you so many things it can be hard to know.
Leaving behind childhood, its games and toys
Learning about bras, emotions  - and especially boys!

The latter can be difficult and turbulent , but then
They too are growing and learning what and when
And if and how they should behave and to whom –
Do they go red and silly when you enter a room
Or do they lash out and kick you because they feel a fool
And besides, it looks more cool!

The male of the species is totally different – and how!
They would rather strut their egos than allow
You to see what is under the façade, but when they get older
They do catch up with us and become a little bolder
Realising that in fact it is okay to act more real
And display to you how they really feel.   

It just takes them longer to mature emotionally, and it might be true
That there are some of them that never actually do
Catch up with us – a lesson you will have to learn my sweet.
Some cannot even be honest with themselves and cheat
And lie, deceive and do a whole lot more
To cover the fact that they are emotionally flawed.

You are blossoming into a young woman who
Is bright and bold, and whether you are aware, beautiful too.
One day, the males of this world will run a mile -
Not to get away from you, but to see you smile
Or even look their way, if you have a mind to ,
Save you a seat on the bus and watch everything you do.
Just be your special self, and as you grow, take care
Of your appearance, your clothes, your smile, your hair
And all that nature has bestowed on you, and in a year or two
The boys around here will be forming a queue!

Remember , choose friends who are there for you in good times and bad
And discard the ones who hurt you and make you sad.
The truth is my darling, life lessons can be hard for us all
Sometimes we are floating, and sometimes we fall.
But one thing I can assure you, about all the above
Is one day you will find your one true love.
And when you do you will be in seventh heaven
Forgetting all the trials of being eleven.
©JEFT 2001

Wednesday 24 October 2012

Body and Soul


Would that you could look inside of me
With your X-ray vision and scalpel sharp thoughts.
But they do not see beyond the flesh and bone
Blood-laced tissue and tiny cells.
Cannot comprehend the complexity of what lies
Within the labyrinth, behind the eyes
That watch you and try to understand.
Flesh-fastened, I exist for the moment
In this world, apprentice to the next for a term
Unknown.
Until then, all remains hidden, cocooned
Behind this poor façade so weak and vulnerable.
Cultivating and growing, awaiting the harvest
To come.
©JEFT 1987

Tuesday 23 October 2012

Daughter



My green eyed child with golden curls,
Frail palest fair and pure in youthful innocence.
Little, littlest girl, whose tiny trusting hand
Enclasped by mine, has vision still of a world
Of unstained brilliance and unbounded serendipity.

Sweetest bud, fragile seedling transplanted from
My womb into the cold uncertainty of Earth’s nursery.
Weather well the seasons and grow like the ethereal
Birch that ever seeks the celestial radiance and
Catches upon the wind the gossamers of creation.
©JEFT 1991