Bard's life

On a visit to Dorset early last summer we came upon a swing beneath a tree in a meadow of the sort you only find in England: a yellow and pink counterpane of wild flowers stretching as far as the eye could see. I treated myself to a few moments rocking back and forth in a relatively sedate manner as befits a member of the older generation and thought back fondly to the headstrong way I rode swings when I was fearless and young.       THE SWING   As we launch out, the air feels clean, the wooden swing, a pendulum divining or recording time, as sunlight stabs, pure platinum, through woodland chestnut, cedar, lime, into our playground, softly green. It takes our joint weight on taut ropes as we, in tandem, drive it on, gathering momentum, we rise: you grip the seat I brace upon with boots, knees, adolescent thighs and boundless, adolescent hopes. The swing is like a storm-tossed boat, the wood’s a bold kaleidoscope of light, leaf patterns, soaring dreams. I shou...

Guernsey's s pring seems already well advanced, with daffodils and primroses abundant in every lane . Soon the trees will be in leaf.        SPRING Green mariners, young leaves soft as skin, are gathering before a tall tree’s mast. A bright, fresh crew, they have a season’s voyage ahead to learn the ropes. They will return, old salts: brown-parchment-skinned, rum-soaked, no wiser than before.

In today's fast-paced world, there's a temptation to take others at face value, swiftly categorise then dismiss them, rarely taking time to learn their history or background.  REFUGEE Overhead lights, bright in a white room; a masked regiment around me at my command. In timeless hush, I work: my steady hand and shining blade make neat incisions, cut out tumours, like blind, destructive moles. It’s done. Eyes, above masks, are joyful. The patient lives. That was before... Today, I wear a white coat in a bright room. Around me, pale unmasked faces, that have not witnessed war, ignore my requests. In harsh, obliterating noise, I work steadily with shining blade. My practiced hand cuts pizzas into segments that do not bleed.

I'm an admirer of the work of Cornwall's greatest poet, the late Charles Causley , and have recently finished reading an excellent biography about him by Laurence Green. When Jane and I spent several weeks in Cornwall last year, we visited the town of Launceston, where Causley was born, and the cemetery where he is buried. I wrote this poem, Blackberries , having just returned one morning from walking a friend's dog on the coastal path above Port Isaac.   BLACKBERRIES                                          Carrying home, in cupped hands, a clutch of blackberries, freshly picked, I marvel at the morning light, high-circling gulls, the puzzled stares of cattle at a gate. Beneath a Causley-Cornish sky I struggle to complete this poem and wonder would that placid man (schoolmaster, p...

Here's a lighthearted, short story for the #Me Too era . KARM A When he was born, Maurice’s worst fears were realised. Reincarnation wasn’t a myth after all.  Maurice had been reincarnated. As a dog. It wasn’t bad at first. Being a puppy was a heady tumble of warmth, fun and sweet milk.   But all that was rudely whipped away. An elderly woman bought him and started imposing RULES.  Maurice had to wee on newspaper. He liked that. It was the Guardian not the Telegraph, Maurice’s newspaper of choice in his former life.  When he forgot and wee-d on rugs and carpets, the woman shrieked like a banshee and chased Maurice, now renamed Boo-Boo, round the kitchen. Servility was not to Boo-Boo’s liking. When he’d been Maurice, people had cowered at his feet. An alpha-male, he’d been a swaggering bully, intoxicated by power. He’d made enemies: men he’d destroyed; women he’d crushed. From youth until horny old age, Maurice had taken what he wanted and damn the consequences....