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

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

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

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

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

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

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