December

December : Will the heart remember?

I look through the old album

and I remember the place

where I was a child, the elder

tree at the end of the soft lawn

where I lay cool and sheltered

from the summer blue-sky sun,

and watched the kaleidoscope

of changing patterns as the

shimmering leaves swayed 

gently in the far away calm

of those magical afternoons.

But what if the old brown photo

no longer stirs the memory?

What if I see only a pale web

of crumpled leaves cold against

a sky overcast by smoke black

clouds, heralding the coming 

of drenching rain which blots

out the innocent happiness

of that long carefree season?

Memory will be found wanting,

maybe the heart will remember.

From the cliff top I can gaze

far across the sweep of the bay

to where we had our happy

times in the modest chalet set

amongst the copper beaches

where squirrel and nuthatch

visited our veranda, and we

were young again in our love

for the place and the wonder 

of our shared passion and joy.

This is my raft of sweet recall.

But what if from that cliff top

I perceived only a misty veil,

curtain dark in the twilight?

What if all that happiness

were to fade into amorphous

shadows on an old stone wall?

How would my life be then, if

I should no longer remember

him, my lover and my friend?

Can the heart’s recollections

prevail against an empty brain?

I can only forget that which is

already done and departed.

Smoke beyond the horizon,

which I have not yet seen, is 

a chimaera of the imagination,

white on white, black writ on

black, blank in the dawning of

tomorrow’s forgotten dream.

Thus, while memory remains,

in hope and faith I will pray

that a heart nurtured by love

may cherish an abiding peace.

Envoi

The Days of Birth and the Days of Death

are the only days of a life which rarely pass unnoticed. 

They remain in the consciousness as milestones 

both to sorrow and to joy.

They are in each life unique Days of New Year.

This day and every day of my New Year

God grant I will remember you.

Amen   So may it be.
                                             Naomi

December

December : He could not stay to watch her

In that fine careless rapture 

of their first togetherness

and in the full flowering of love

he nurtured her, he cherished her,

by his love he reassured her

that he demanded nothing from her.

He hoped for nothing from her

except that she might love him

and rest easy in the sweet house 

of comfort that he made for her,

beside the gnarled apple tree and 

he pool, petal carpeted with white.

She sat amidst the fragrant blossom

and asked ‘What drives this love?’

‘Acceptance of how all things are,

of how you are and of what I am,

blessings bestowed on what has been,

arms wide to welcome what is to come.’

He took her to a southern land where

crimson dark roses bloomed amidst 

crystal fountains and stone laced

arches in the Sultan’s gardens,

and the dark twisted leaves 

of the myrtle gleamed in the sun. 

They sat on the top of a mountain

the world unfurled at their feet,

great trees tinged with autumn, 

the dancing stream a silver thread 

amongst the darkening bracken

and the mournful crying of sheep.

For them in their joy the ordinary

became the extraordinary,

old cobbles shone with spun gold,

rough grass a green velvet cushion,

while lowering clouds glittered, 

reflecting a thousand invisible stars.

In a balconied white walled room

in a Home overlooking the sea 

he lay on a crisp white sheet.

Time for the intertwining of fingers,

words of love lovingly unspoken,

and a gentle caress on the cheek.

He could not stay to watch her

grow old, he would not mourn

the final disintegration of the body 

and failing spirit once so full of joy. 

To do this for him was now her 

privilege, and of that she was glad.

‘I am only alive when you are here’

he said, faded eyes warm in the dusk

and the lamplight, smiling goodnight,

putting aside the fear and the pain.

The air was sweet as with lavender,

vibrant with the song of unheard birds.

She returned one frosted afternoon

to the sun filled white bright room,

come with a kiss to wake her prince, 

but as the world gratefully embraced 

the day, he had begun his long 

journey and slipped quietly away.

                                                          Naomi

November : Remembrance Sunday

November : Did you ride the train?

‘Did you ride the train to Auschwitz-Birkenau?’

I asked God.

‘Were you there?’

‘Did you not see’ replied God,

‘the love in the old eyes of the rabbi,

his sole luggage a  basket of challah loaves,

which he broke and blessed and gave

to the children crying in a corner, whose only

companion on that train of destruction was hunger.

Did you not hear the sweet voice of the young mother

who sang ‘Oseh shalom’ to her fretful baby,

whom then she kissed and held close to her heart?

Yes, 

I  was there.

When the living and the dead entwined were thrown

from that train into the bitter morning,

were you not moved by the compassion of strangers

supporting the woman, the child, the maimed,

all unknowing on the left hand way to death?

Did you not sense the hope in the eyes

of the young man ordered to work,

and the faith in the heart of the old man

that his God would not desert him?

I was always there.’

said God.

‘Cursed, reviled, blamed, cast out, forgotten,

I am there when old enemies touch hands,

when a smile lights up the darkness of despair,

when a cup of water and a crust is shared,

when children looking up at the rising sun,

clap their hands amongst the rubble and the dust.

At the bedside of the dying, in the cradle

of new life just born,

I am there.’

Once in this place broken victims, innocents

with eyes made vacant by hungry fear, 

waited for the bitter taste of oblivion.

Dark chimneys, long cold now, spring from

fresh mown grass and flowers of yellow and red  

weave a living tapestry across the meadow.

Beneath the soft grey haze of a Polish sky 

the land lies quiet, at peace,

for Love unbidden is come again.

Naomi

Illustration by Liz

October : On the Beach

Beach Garden

At the edge of the curving beach

where shadows give way to sun,

is a modest sandy garden.

Tamarisk with long fat fingers

of a hundred tiny pink flowers,

late budding santolina, cotton rich

with yellow button blooms, while

purple globes of sea holly stand

proud above their pebbled bed.

Herring Gull

Close to a feathered corpse    

lying high-tide stranded beneath

the milk-white cliff, he tosses shells

and bladderwrack into an October

sky.  Curved beak agape, his long

harsh cry lingers on the wind,

proclaiming that he the king 

seeks a new mate, while the first

lies not yet cold on jagged rocks.

Lost Dog

A brindled dog lost, tail wagging,

pretending not to care, darts 

about the pools and alien paths.

Whining quietly, brown eyes sad, 

he lies nose on trembling paws, 

close by the water’s edge. Tries to

to join the playing children, but

rudely banished, he shivers, sighs

and pads sadly away into nowhere.

Sunset

They are all gone now, flowers

shrouded in soft evening mist,

herring gull with his new queen

up to the nest high on the cliff,

lost dog found again, warm again

in the clutch of the boy who had

wept through the long afternoon

for his faithful old mongrel friend.

The beach lies deserted and quiet.

Night

As the pale gold sun gently slips

into the arms of a dark bronze sea,

the faint echo of an invisible bell

is heard above the whispering

of small waves lapping on shingle.

Once perhaps it was a summons 

bidding the faithful to prayer, 

tonight only the hoot of an owl

responds:  ‘Sleep now. All is well.’

Illustration by Liz                  Naomi                              

September : The Château of Saumur 1416

September : The Château of Saumur  1416 

[On looking at a facsimile of the Duc de Berry’s ‘Les Très Riches Heures’]

Commanding the landscape from its place on a hill,

the chateau lifts into the sky slim turrets crowned by

golden fleur de lys, symbols of privilege and power.

Intricate invention of white stone and dove grey slate,

a castle sugar-spun by a master patissier’s art, with

a quiet about it, shimmering in the noon day as if it

were enchanted, goblin made in silvered thistle down.

Ladies eat honeycakes, their lords make games of war, 

the empty tiltyard echoes with whispers of taffeta and

silk and the thud of steel cold lance on leather shield.

Lords joust, ladies play, but peasants all must work.

Servants, baskets on head, climb the gatehouse path; 

in the field below a woman rests, apron lifted high 

by her swollen belly; a hungry man, seizing a bunch

of ripe fruit, eats and takes his ease as best he can. 

Bent double over bloom coated purple grapes, grim 

faced gatherers, muscles aching, joints protesting  

toil on, while meek panniered donkeys rest patient

beneath their heavy burdens, and gentle eyed oxen

draw high stocked carts through the hot afternoon.

Subservient to a lord, whose great château itself 

mirrors his royal rank and wealth, but accustomed 

to their lowly appointed place, beast and peasant

mutely submit, helpless in a divinely ordered world.

Their lord’s free men now - but poor menials still, 

they must ever labour in another man’s vineyard, 

serve at another man’s table, dreaming of the day

when every man will make his own wine, his wife

bake her own bread. Dreaming is cheap, but hope 

is sometimes blind and freedom may be a burden.

There is an irony in this masterpiece of vellum, lapis 

and gold, this holy book of devotions made for the 

brother of a king, who nightly whispers his reverent 

Kyrie, eleison to his ever forgiving God, while peasants 
weep in the darkness for their dying children. 
Men may be free but not evade the serfdom of poverty;

a rich man’s self-content may divorce him from his

Lord’s command ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’

The king’s brother enjoys the sleep of a virtuous man,

poor men lie awake and pray for a better life to come.

           

Lords rest for eternity in their white marble tombs,

in the bleak church yard their peasants lie forgotten.

The castle remembers rebellion and revolution, canon

shot and the rattle of musket fire, while the captives

were broken on the spokes of Catherine’s cruel wheel.

The dark red blood of the dead ran like a river through

shattered streets and dreams of a new world crumbled.

What chance now for the coming of that longed for

community of a bright celestial dawning, when love

for one another should at last become the only rule?

Naomi        Donkeys  by  Liz

August : August Lament

August Lament : Strawberries in December

August nineteen forty three,

beneath a crystal canopy

of sweet sunshine warm air

they took me to the seaside.

We sat on a beach as clean

as my grandmother’s kitchen,

we paddled in rock pools

whose water was as clear

as the unpolluted night sky.

They carried me laughing,

shoulder high into the waves,

and I could see small crabs

dancing on a carpet of sand,

fine white gold and blue.

We climbed up the long hill

and sat on the world’s edge, 

small fields below spread

across the landscape like

a soft lopsided patchwork, 

ochre, ebony and poppy red

stitched unevenly together

with dull green hedge and 

shimmering leafed tree. 

Here linnets and turtle doves

sang, yellow hammers made 

their nests on hedgerow banks

strewn with purple honesty,

white comfrey, pink motherwort.

From my high grassy perch

I could see diminutive

white ducks on the pond,

graceful in the rippling water;

two massive Suffolk mares

pulling the wooden plough,

their chestnut coats glowing

flames against the soil dark

first furrows of the year.

And there were butterflies,

Large Tortoiseshells orange

bright, the vivid Adonis Blue, 

marbled High Brown Fritillaries

and dignified Dingy Skippers.

Some seventy years later 

as the dull grey toxic cloud

rolls along the Gallic coast,

masking the sun, staining

sullen water and dismal sky,

I take myself to the seaside.

Spilled oil rimmed rock pools 

have become graveyards

for cormorant and little tern;

the laced foam, once white,

is thick with yellow sludge

meandering across a slimy 

floor of malignant polythene.

No crabs are dancing here.

Up to the top of the long hill

where, spread out before me,

a hundred acre field suffocates 

beneath a ton of vicious glass.

I see no hedges, hear no birds

sing, no wildflowers turn

their sweet faces to the sun,

no butterflies flutter in this

hot dusty August afternoon.

Persistent Greed has connived 

with reckless Progress to

lay waste to the simpler world 

of my childhood, for all must now

have strawberries in December.

                              Naomi

July : Child on the hillside

July : Child on the hillside

Lit by the sweet Devon sunshine

on a hill overlooking the moor

some sixty something years ago,

the loveliness of leaf and tree,

of petal and flower, of dancing water

and shimmering gorse, opened wide

the eyes of her soul to the divine.

God the Invisible, the Ineffable, 

Creator, Universal Father, source

of all this pure empyrean beauty, 

presented it to a child who wept

perceiving that such transcendent

glory would endure, while she 

like a feather tossed in a stream,

must float away unremembered

into the dark shadows of oblivion.

As fading woodsmoke rises

lazily into a summer evening,

tendrils of incense delicately

embraced the lime white stone

of the sanctuary where the young 

woman knelt, lost in the unfolding 

drama of the eternal filial sacrifice.

‘Jesus, Jesus, ’ she murmured,

the mantra which bound her anew

to two thousand years of love

and dedication to the unloved,

the lonely, the sinner and the saint.

And she smiled as she recalled

the frightened child on the moor,

now made content by the Gospel

of Almighty God becoming Man.

As her life unfolded  the Christ

became her guide, her teacher, 

her confidant, her friend.

In times of great uncertainty,

of disaster and stark despair, 

he pointed her to heaven,

to the Father whom she had first 

met on that long ago sacred day.

When ugly pain engulfed her 

and only the presence of God 

remained in the core of her being,

she perceived that the man Jesus

was the greatest of all men,

but whose resurrection existed 

only in the hearts of those who

were minded to walk with him.

She walks now on that quiet path

in a valley whose name is Content.

The enervating heat of noon is past

and the healing breezes of evening

teal silently out of the shadows.

The child she used to be takes

her hand, and whispers to her that

what there is, is all there is,

and all there is, is gift enough

to be made of, or not, as she wills.

She feels the presence of the past,

the high peaks, the bottomless pits,

loving and loss, sadness and joy,

her young self, and her strong self, 

while a man whose yoke is easy, 

leads her gently into the morning.

                                        Naomi