In praise of Guernsey fishermen
In winter, when Guernsey looks for snow
We get instead a hefty blow
of hail and sleet and endless rain:
and suffer fiercest storms again.
The waves are whipped above the towers
a church clock chimes the worried hours
as boats are battling in the storm
the rest of us are snug and warm.
So spare a thought for all who toil:
sailors and fishermen so loyal
who labour many hours at sea
to bring us fish (with chips) for tea.
Guernsey summer
Seashells and sandcastles, sandwiches and sea
Crisps and cakes and biscuits and ice-cream cones for tea.
Beach cricket, volleyball and a football or two
Lots of time to have some fun under the sky so blue.
Bicycling and walking, strolling through the lanes,
staying out till late at night: summer's come again.
Concerts in the open air; films and plays and more
Barbeques aplenty right here on the sea shore.
Kayaking or surfing, jumping in the sea:
Guernsey in the summer: that's the best for me!
Fire
In the glowing
dreams which once flew smokily away
sizzle alive again,
imprints on unwary hearts.
Visions writhing,
calling, siren-like, to reach and grasp
these burning wishes,
branding my very being.
I lose myself
in red-gold embers deeply beckoning
abstracted reason.
A moment seized - then gone.
I wake.
Seasoning
Summer water beckons mint-green cool
to feverish hot skin.
Shimmering air gently coaxes ripples of contentment.
Autumn trees entice the walker in
kaleidoscope of colour.
Careering leaves crisply stir up expectations.
Winter storms rage angry in the wind
whipping souls in deep sadness
and the Christ child brings rejoicing.
Spring newness waiting to burst
upon an unsuspecting world.
Seasons rumble, turning without pause into the future.
Late at night
I sit alone in the darkness of an empty kitchen;
a strident moon shouts silver through the glass.
The dishwasher grumbles efficiently,
lights winking, other appliances whisper attention
while the house sleeps.
But I do not. As I ready my body for bedtime quiet
my mind starts its sprint to worry. Beginning with a jog
past landmarks of disquiet, I agitate to reach
that which is most distressing, running full tilt arms outstretched
to embrace my deepest fears.
Sympathy
When you were small, your mother loved
to wipe away your tears.
Now you are grown, your mother left
for you to mourn the years.
Yet life and love she gladly gave
as you continue through;
And while you mourn, remember this:
Her life lives on: in you.
