Tag Archives: nature

Late Summer

2 Sep

I saw a thousand butterflies
White above a field
Clumsily they fluttered by
Tacking against the breeze

I saw a standing pony there
Lonely in that field
Wind ruffling its tail and hair
To and fro with the trees

I saw the berries on the thorn
Red against the green
Humming tractors mowing corn
Signalled the season’s end.

I saw the clouds scud up above
As clouds are wont to do
Underneath them kites and doves
Flew in silhouette.


I just moved back to the village I grew up in, after several years living in metropolises. It is a lot quieter and there’s less energy around, but there is certainly a lot of natural beauty to enjoy. The countryside in north Buckinghamshire isn’t spectacular, and it doesn’t take your breath away, but it has an understated, soft, gentle beauty to it, which I was really feeling on this warm, end of summer evening.

The poem is unfinished – I’m still trying to figure out a reasonable final stanza to tie it together and invoke some feelings.

The Beech Tree

4 Mar

Scar-broken smoothness, bark like whaleskin

steeply high rising, tall trunk casting

shadows, as delicate mauve grey branches

cradle the coalsmoke sky.

Green moss-gilded in parts of the bole

horseshoe fungus, woodpecker’s hole

disturb smooth lines of bark; like buttresses

of a silvan cathedral.

November Poem

20 Nov

The sky ages and greys, thinking back on her

half remembered days of blue and gold beauty.

The damp sodden ground dreams of long distant dryness

while beads of rainfall gleam on its shivering green blanket.

The magpie doesn’t care, hopping white and black,

his plumes like ingredients of the day’s greyness.

River of my Youth

6 Apr

Sitting on the damp grass

by the river of my youth,

more a stream

to tell the truth, though as a child

it seemed bigger.


I’ve shrunk it in growing,

but still the gleam

carries magic from afar to far

away. I like how

it’ll never stop flowing

will always be here

when I’m gone; home, city-bound,

or dead, it’ll still be going,

always cool, wet, fish-full

and refreshing.


rolling small and obscure

under mature willows

through unremarkable fields.

Appreciated by dog walkers

and their wet dogs,

cider-quaffing pot-smoking

village idiots will lounge and litter its banks.


Small Huckleberry boys

will always scamper across

its plank bridges – fishing net in hand,

sunhat on head,

hunting the clawed monster crayfish

of the muddy bed.


And the occasional dreamer

quiet and aloof,

will sit, and take peace

from its ceaseless, winding,

sea-searching movement through the fields.




Oneness Poem

19 Dec

The trees:

are beautiful,

green above the sheen of a clear stream

they’re swaying,

soaring zephyr-stirred

on a background of azure purity.

The unmovable: it’s evident,

in the smooth movement of the stream;

rolling, splish splash

in grass banks.

Up above: a glide of vapour;

white cloud benignly

shifts as sun

(God’s sun)

beams down,

his light bathing bathers.

Droplets depart mother river

splashed upwards they

glint before glistening

on skin.

They rinse clean skins of bodies,

that, once apart,

melt one-wards and meld

becoming boundless,

as boundaries disappear

so that together, here,

all are One.

And in this nature

this wildness of blue, brown, green

in the life-filled

brilliance of sparkling water’s sheen

all is one,


The Unmovable

in motion –

One in the Oneness;


This is a rewriting of a poem I wrote a few years ago after a spiritual experience I had after a rave in the Welsh mountains. The rave was a pretty dodgy techno party, frequented by the usual deadbeats and misfits of society that these events attract. Fun nevertheless, and located in a beautiful spot called Forest Coalpit in the Brecon Beacons. We stayed at the party until about 9am, by which time the sun was really scorching, and then drove a mile further up the track to a spot by a beautiful stream where we got out and had a dip. While there I had a very powerful sense of spiritual elation, brought on in part by a book I had been reading about religion and spiritualism (The Perennial Philosophy by Aldous Huxley – amazing book). The references to the ‘unmovable’, and ‘one in the oneness’ and ‘nirvana’ come from the theological writings I discovered through this book. Looking back, to suggest I attained nirvana is a bit pretentious – if I came anywhere near it it didn’t last, although I still remember the feeling I had.

This is the second rewriting of this poem, the first is on this blog and entitled ‘After the Party’, and is less high-flown.

Snow Hides. Haiku

7 Jan

Timeless white snow coats

earth cleanly, underneath bides

black modern tarmac.

snow sun peak district

Snow in the Peak District, Yorkshire, England. (By my mate Martyn Heath)

Just a snow poem as we have had probably the biggest snowfall for a decade here in South East England. It is beautiful snow, really light and crisp, not slushy or wet at all, and today the sky was bright blue , which made for beautiful photo-taking conditions. Unfortunately my camera broke (After just a few months. It had a ‘Zoom Error’ issue. It was a Fujifilm Finepix J20 – I shan’t be buying one of them again.) so I didn’t get any snaps, but I have uploaded a nice picture of a more rural snow scene up in hilly Yorkshire, taken by my friend Martyn a couple of years ago. This haiku relates more to urban snow, of course, so the picture isn’t 100 per cent relevant, but never mind, eh?

Battlefield Greeting

14 Sep

This is very much a first draft, and subject potentially to drastic changes as I just wrote it today after a humorous encounter that took place while I was walking my dog. Dogs are funny. I hope this poem captures some of that humour. Pointers on length, format, language, etc, appreciated.


With half-foot leaps and ears a-flapping

the threestrong tribe of sausage dogs approached rapidly,

barking across the autumn field.


Their owner’s cries of “heel!” followed the dogs in vain

as they neared the solitary Labrador dog

who waited with ears pricked up in trepidation.


At length the first salami-shaped warrior arrived

to within three feet, from where he barked his battle-cry,

at which the black lab stared mute, without reply.


With his challenge unanswered and his companions in support

The lead tribesman hopped closer on his five inch-high legs

Until he stood right under the his foe’s wet black nose.


He shouted again: “Greetings fellow canine, I am Lord Dashington the despoiler,

(although some call me Timmy,) a proud member

of the great dachshund tribe of fearless warrior hunting dogs.


Famed throughout the world; our name comes from our quarry:

the terrible badger, or ‘dachs’, auf Deutsch,

in the pursuit of whom we are renowned beyond compare.


No dark badger lair is too fearful for I,

or for brethren you see standing not far off,

and as such I challenge you, should you accept


To do battle upon the open field, right here and now.

But before battle commences, I must know your pedigree;

what is your fame and from whence do you come?”


The Labrador had been staring blankly ahead throughout the monologue,

but at this he lowered his head a little, grinned sloppily,

and announced: “My name is Finn, and I like chewsticks,”


Then stepped nimbly around the dachshund,

sniffed its behind quickly, and then turned and lolloped away

across the grass, leaving the outraged sausage dogs in his wake.

Pond Haiku

18 Aug

Green, green pond water,
the sun, and brown-feathered ducks
ripple its surface.



Insect Landscape

29 Jul

Tickling as it walks

the spider traverses my chestscape

as I lie upon the open lawn

in the sun.

Tiny and harmless,

I relish its movements.


And next to me, another friend:

It looks like it’s Red Ant


Hello, Red Ant,

In the grass-forests rummaging,

how are things with you?

What’s new and how d’you do?


I like you Red Ant

You are solid and dependable.

I would almost let you climb up

and roam the sparse-haired savana

of my skin, as well;

but I know what you are like.


You would abuse the privilege,

with your spot of searing acid

spewed forth bravely;

a suicidal mission

against an enormous enemy.

You would take one for the team


Like the perfect soldier

undaunted in the face

of me, your world-filling foe.


Except I am not your foe,

little ant, not me,

I’m here to bask, not bite,

and so if I might, I’ll just lay

here beside you a little while

as you go about your industrious day.


I like to do this;

lie on the summer grass in the sun

lie prone, immobile, like a landscape feature,

insect-crossed and edificial

like a temperate Ayer’s Rock.


To the insects, and to the bugs,

And to the worms, as well,

I am a mountain,

or at least a significant

landscape feature.


But to the plane passing overhead

(and to the skies, to God)

I myself am the ant,

Sprawling and burning in the sun.