Followers

Sunday, 28 August 2016

LYTES CARY MANOR


Here, it was love at first sight: the homecoming
avidly sought throughout a lifetime. Ancient
emotionally charged walls and parapets drew me in,
and now I cannot imagine ever wanting to leave
a place so enigmatic and enchanting.
To most, it appears only atmospheric - harboring the subtle echoes
of long-forgotten triumphs and tragedies.
Our footfalls and voices intrude, but the house remains aloof:
a non-interactive observer, rooted in bygone times.


Exquisite oaken beams are edged with quatrefoils, demi-angels and pierced tracery,
lovingly crafted by expert hands using skills now practically extinct.
But this ornamentation is only a small part of Lytes' timeless allure -
past generations of occupants remain here still.
They impress themselves upon our consciousness,
infusing our minds with a powerful sense of belonging.
These days, as I walk among them, they totally inhabit me.
Then each time I leave, I am hollowed out.


These ethereal beings mingle with the visitors,
their footsteps following well-trodden familiar paths.
The two leather ladies, one either side of the fireplace,
keep watch as the centuries roll by.
Their expressions appear somewhat haughty, possibly disapproving.
It is as if they know, can see into our Souls
and interpret our life-paths and aspirations.
But these have no interest in our trivial wants -
for they are from an age before self became all-absorbing.


A spectral Lady Catherine Neville stands
examining her own portrait that adorns the Oriel chimney piece.
Casual observers walk clean through her. One remarks:
"There is a peculiar chill here. It sends shivers down my spine.
I don't like this place at all. It reminds me of a ghastly sepulchre!"
Such blasphemy shocks me.
My Lytes Cary could never be an abode of the dead.
The truth is in the company I keep - and what I shall someday also be:
an indelible shadow on the stone spiral staircase...



Friday, 12 August 2016

DIRGE FOR A KING

Irresistible urge to plant a kiss
upon those sensuous pallid lips,
while listening to the priest reminisce
about a life in constant eclipse.

Oh why did he die at the very beginning
of the penultimate episode?
I wanted him there to the end and winning
the battle with his cousin - that toad!

From silver spoon that ushered him in
to the Reaper's final swathe,
he's been here buried under my skin -
in his essence I constantly bathe.

So what comes next for Ryan Gage
now Louis is dead and gone?
Wish I had courage to slip backstage
and interrogate his hangers-on.

And what on earth will become of me
now The Musketeers is finished?
Guess I'll be reduced to the epitome
of dreamer with all hope diminished. ;)


I am taking some time off now, as I have just begun a new college course. 
The workload is huge, so I fear I won't be writing much over the next few months.:/
However, I will post and visit you as often as I can.

Wishing you all a great summer (well, the rest of it!).:))
I will miss you all...xoxoxo

Saturday, 6 August 2016

PINK



Recollections of all our yesterdays
infuse these cave walls

with fiery emotions that intensify
at each rising of the tide
until the very rock cries out:

I will not remember you!

Oh to fall asleep
in blissful ignorance
of all that has gone before
and in Medusa's gaze
turn to stone: cold, unfeeling

as these chilling winds
that drive the sea into my Soul,

where still you dwell unbidden
in this pink spray: pink,
the colour of my accursed undying love.

Friday, 29 July 2016

BLACK

Black is what I most remember
about Khan: blackness and all the wild
goose chases he loved to lead me on. I've never walked
the bleak vastness of the moor since then. Black,
not of moonless skies, but a greyish,
almost mongrel black that belied his illustrious
pedigree and made him appear unexceptional
to the untrained eye that might skim over him without the slightest interest
in the mud-encrusted dreadlocks that swamped
his delicate features, nor in the flashes of deep auburn
that framed those soft brown eyes.

I remember him, the most stubborn, mischievous Afghan Hound that ever lived -
the only dog I ever truly called friend - almost as tall as me,
his long legs outrunning mine,
in fact running rings around me at every turn:
bolting off into the distance, impervious to my frantic calls
and genuine fear that I'd never see him again.
Oh how he delighted in trying my patience! Slipping his collar
was a favourite trick, and throwing himself into the river -
just, I swear, to compound the state of his coat and bring double trouble down upon me.
Truly, he could run like the wind when he wanted,
could easily have outrun any prize-winning racehorse.

So many times I'd cling onto his lead with dogged determination,
only for him to pull me along, face down in the mud,
a wicked glint in his eye. Then he'd slip his collar
and take to the hills like a thing demented, hill sheep
darting off in terror at the sight of that
demonic-like black lightening that streaked through their midst.
He left me feeling so useless: a dog owner, owning
what? Those feet, I believed, weren't even under his control.
They appeared to possess a will of their own, and certainly were my Nemesis.

Then, finally, one of these escapades proved to be his undoing.
A car is much less yielding than an ineffectual mistress.
My heart was shattered by the sickening BANG
that sent him spinning into stillness
in an horrific kaleidoscope
of sodden reddish black.



Saturday, 23 July 2016

CONTACT


Orbs emerging from the shadows
in a deserted barn.

How should my senses interpret
their presence? Trick of the light, perhaps?

Diving, spiralling -
surely they own

this very air. I cannot touch
such enigmas: these beings

from another plane who have forsaken
their half-sleep to fly, fly around.

Are they Spirits unclothed?
Bright globes of pure energy, or essences maybe?

Look! One is revealing itself -
facial features, with a goatee beard.


Maybe this is a voyager - even Sir Francis Drake himself,
defying metaphysical law

to return to his beloved home
and negate all known hypotheses:

a sphere of pure consciousness, his white light
fuelled by unfinished business.

Are these non-amnesiac fugitives from the Afterlife?
And why do I behold

this dancing solar system of Souls
who swirl like wind-tossed snow flakes,

hypnotically transfixing me to the spot
here in Buckland Abbey grounds?

The past, momentarily touching the present?
Now they are gone.

Saturday, 16 July 2016

ENGLISH SUMMER


This is the lived-for time, activities time.
All windows are thrown open.
I have my sum cream -
three tubes of it -
and a new bikini on standby

waiting in the dark of my wardrobe
to finally be worn
and fade in the sunlight, while my skin
turns red then golden brown.
But, oh, dream on! The wait is so protracted.

This is the season that can never be relied upon.
It is the season that mostly disappoints,
with clouds heaped up like mountains.
Sunlight,
heavily, heavily filtered through raindrops

casts a graded grey sheen over the landscape.
Drab asininity. Depressing.
Stuck indoors.
It is the rain that governs all,
but neither purposely nor unintentionally:

only arbitrarily.
This is a period of blind faith, of craving and praying for sun -
a sun so elusive I hardly remember it's beauty,
it's warmth,
it's effect on the earth:

all that blossoming and burgeoning, that is still on hold.
Only hope keeps me going,
and golden memories of rare heatwaves.
It is these I thrive on, rather than present reality.
But the rain batters everything, there is no escape.

Now there is a virtual lake where the lawn should be,
muddy
with dissolving worm casts.
The garden's tears are brown.
They spread onto the patio, leaving nowhere to walk

except in wellies
and are systematically drowning all the insects.
The sun is alpha male,
all-powerful, laughing at us from his high throne:
uncontested sovereign of the unseasonal

who delights in thwarting our year-long holiday plans.
Summer is for the foolish -
the foolish who believe in the sun god,
who worship him in the rain,
their bodies numb with cold and brains too dumb to reason.

Can we survive yet another English summer? Will the roses
blossom before rotting on their stems,
or live long enough to see the sun?
If so, what will they smell of - mildew?
Sudden chink in endless cloud. Gorgeous sunset.

Pass my camera. QUICK!!!






Saturday, 9 July 2016

ENCOUNTER

Sudden encounter
         equilibrium shattered:
a passing glance
         reciprocated.
Enslavement
         to libido's dictates.
Deep denial:
         repression
of overwhelming urge.

But the image repeats
         speeding heartbeat.
Impulsively seeking you...
         on wind-swept deserted beach,
your nakedness
         steals my breath.
Motionless as the rocks,
         staring at each other
then tentatively touching.

This is forever
         the blatant lie
is in my eyes,
         is the siren parading
as Soul Mate,
         highly romanticized
in quicksilver promises
         beneath moonlit sky.
Shangri-la.

All night long
         your wild caresses
drown me
         in passion's tumultuous waves.
Pure rapture.
        it is enough to be
part ocean, part you
         in the intensity
of the moment.

A cry escapes
         as if from afar
and nails claw
         the muscles of your back,
branding you in blood.
         You open your mouth
as if to speak
         but I smother you
with guilty kisses -


not wanting to hear
         the heart-felt I love you
that you utter anyway -
         because those words
are beyond
         my comprehension,
their syllables chaotic
         as droplets of sea spray
dispersed by the western wind.