KAYAKING

Alone on the canal, with nothing but water
and passing hedgerows, their reflections distorted
in the aqueous world beneath it's cathedral-like arches of beech.
What lies beyond the next bend? A multitude
of weeping willows, caressing the water's edge
like graceful ballet dancers, their slender swirling fronds
hypnotising incredulous eyes. Awestruck.
I hadn't expected to be so drawn into this surreal realm -
so connected with such beauty. I am the water's ecstasy.

Overhead the coal-black crows call to my Soul, like
black snowflakes wheeling in the blue sky.
Their cacophony is the only sound, apart from the rhythmic splashing
of my paddle. I hope and mentally pray that this trip will never end.
Tall brown bull rushes sway as I pass,
dancing to my soundless tune, and the occasional call of frogs
pulls my gaze to the green/brown flashes of movement on the near bank.
My unwelcome intrusion has disturbed their peaceful siesta.
Just one more bend, and both canal and hedgerows abruptly end.

All that lies ahead now is stark civilisation.
From an overhead bridge, the sudden stench of exhaust fumes
forces it's poisonous breath deep into asthmatic lungs.
This bridge is too artificial: such an inappropriate terminus for Nature's glory.
I climb out onto the tow path's end and sigh as I deflate my kayak.
The bridge forms a borderland between worlds, between beauty and ugliness,
and I know I must now rejoin that chaos
that most term urbanisation, with it's electric fields, brainwashing and self-deception.
And I feel broken, like a crushed car in a long-abandoned scrap yard...



I am having a few health issues at present and have to go into hospital for some tests.
I will return to Blogging as soon as I can...
until then, I will miss you all. xoxoxo

ANATOMY OF A FRIENDSHIP

For Rusty...

Most school friendships cannot withstand
the passing of years, of futures unplanned:
don't reach the place where fate begins
for two like us who've shared a space
and formed a bond time cannot displace -
we're closer, I feel, than most twins.

In fact, we're connected. Absolute.
My husband thinks it's all rather cute:
all these years spent living apart
from each other, but not in memory or thought,
and it was you in all honesty who mostly taught
me to confidently open my heart.

Ours is a bond that pays huge dividends:
it catches all of life's loose ends
and weaves them into a work of art,
a thing of beauty that brings new meaning
to otherwise arbitrary occurrences demeaning
and impels me to make a new start.

How many have pondered the meaning of life
when beset by years of unconquerable strife?
Well I'm no different from any of those -
I throw my tantrums while lamenting why me?
But is it that question that sets me free?
No, it's the empathy that between us flows.

The most exciting loves can be artifice
that keep us dangling between fire and ice
and combines incongruous
elements like dirty socks and chocolates
in boxes tied with ribbons, and illicit associates.
But in you I trust - you could never be that treacherous.

Yet sometimes our own lives become so all-absorbing
that for months on end we neglect calling.
We're immersed in the mundane
until a glut of disenchantment
overwhelms us with resentment
until we seek once more friendship's domain.

That choice between loneliness and baring one's Soul
often leads the faint-hearted to a safer goal.
But not so for us
because right from the start
we felt lost when apart
and there's no subject we cannot discuss.

Whatever happens we're there for each other -
yet ours is a closeness that will never smother
either's individuality:
rooted in counties many miles apart,
yet the contradiction (for we remain heart-to-heart)
forms the basis of our solidarity.

ORPHAN

ORPHAN. The word itself is distressing:
child, a detached leaf helplessly tossed
on the chaotic up draft
from the searing flames of loss
that will eventually consume the tiny heart.

RAWNESS. Death's pathetic victim
with her gaping wound that leads straight to the Soul,
wherein lies only agony and frozen dreams
of lost love: a severed bond that inwardly bleeds
and bleeds into nothing at all.

PITEOUS. Ariadne sits quietly observing
from the centre of her apocalyptic spokes.
Black is the cloak She drapes
protectively around the little heart so grieving
for the warmth of family unity.

HARDSHIP. Oh for just one more moment:
a Mother's arms to offer physical comfort,
to nurture and wrap in unconditional love -
instead of the cold guardianship of strangers
that leaves her emotionally starving.

ADVERSITY. Constant fight for attention.
The promise of care is full of holes
that the less robust fall through
into depression's infinite darkness,
where life's meaning lies only in oblivion.

NUMBER. This is the hardest part. She is
no more than a number on a computer screen.
A number, without identity or history,
nor any place in society to claim
the yearned-for title of daughter.



Yet, sometimes in dreams a gentle voice
calls her name in the dead of night.
And her heart begins to race -
could Mother-love really breach the abyss,
or is it just the echo of her own deep need?

This is her greatest hope. The hope that her beloved Mother
may still be there in some form and trying hard to reach her,
like a bird with nest plundered: fluttering frantically
against overcrowded dormitory window,
constantly watching over her precious offspring...

for the rest of her time on Earth.