It took its time getting here
and the fear was that it would be mid year
and still we’d have no sun – just rain –
with only grey clouds for weeks.
Just grey clouds that came again
and again – with rain. A saturation
of precipitation. A situation of steady
frustration.
But now the sun has decided to show
itself to try to dry the sodden soil.
The weeds survived and thrived, of course.
Persistent Precipitation
And still it came – the rain!
More and more to saturate the satiated soil
Of a dishevelled garden, mired in mud.
The water would drain away if it could,
But now lies in ponds
Among the fronds
And flooded roots
Where pale green shoots
Of bulbs appear,
Fooled in thinking Spring is near,
And seem to drown,
As more incessant rain comes down.
I look through the soaking window pain
And think of summer months again,
When in the swelter of an August day,
Perversely we all start to pray
For rain!
© Wally Smith 2024
I have been a member of an amateur dramatics group for a number of years now. A log time ago I put myself on a stage and before an audience, but nothing of the sort in the intervening twenty odd years. That was until my retirement when I discovered a group in the area I moved to several years ago. Since then I have appeared in productions as varied as Greek tragedy, Shakespeare, Moliere and Pantomime (I was the dame!). I have tried to define what it is about taking part in such activities that is the attraction, because inevitably on the opening night nervous tension takes over, which it is popularly thought is a good thing. Learning lines is always stressful, especially at my age, and also if the part is of substantial size. Despite this, I have always gone back for more. Is it the dressing up in different costumes, the excitement of a first night or the applause from the audience that is the lure? More than this, I believe it is the camaraderie and teamwork of everyone taking part, be it on stage or behind the scenes.
The current seasonal offering is Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol, hence the picture.
The audience applause – a cause
to heave a sigh and wonder why
there was all the fuss about the learning
of lines. There were times when I wished
I’d never started. But being downhearted has
no part in a production, unless of course,
(it goes without saying)
that that is the part you are actually playing.
This weekend I enjoyed my first Horkey, which is a name denoting the celebrations that end the harvest festivals, and is particularly attributed to East Anglia. It consists of a festival of folk music, poetry, songs and stories. As a member of the Suffolk Poetry Society, I was invited to read a poem about Autumn or something related to that time of year. I was intrigued by the sight of so many spiders’ webs decorating shrubs, trees, lamps and gateposts in the dew-laden air at this time of year and wrote the following:
Web Designer
Fragility shudders in morning mist,
Where a dew-draped web hangs
On silken threads.
How can such a trap seem so exquisite?
Intricacy of design with a less benign intention.
An invention of nature.
The architect of this lace-like span
Waits and waits, as dew dissolves
And sweet sunlight lures
The unsuspecting prey.
The very late and very warm weather has now gone and Autumn has established itself with cooler days and much wetter weather.
The mahonia bush in the garden very much stands out in these greyer days.
Mahonia (An acrostic )
Mistress of autumn foliage,
A collage of yellow spikes and green,
Holding forth in rain-soaked raiment:
Oh, what a brilliant scene!
Nature’s bold expression,
In this season’s time of dying,
A confirmation of succession.
What breeze there is has a languid feel
and merely ushers hot air amongst
the shrubs and bushes. I’ve no doubt
a drought will follow soon.
Unauthorised use of hosepipes
will be deemed treasonable,
despite the unseasonable weather.
Evaporation
Perspiration
Indignation
Resignation
Precipitation (please!)
The season shifts and the mists
Move light in the morning air,
Where harvest spiders weave
And leave webs drip-filled with dew.
The day grows into a belated heat
That summer never saw.
Ripening fruits are in awe
Of the swelling warmth.
Records record it’s the hottest,
Where once was the wettest there’d been.
Yet I still fret, and am willing to bet
My tomatoes will all remain green.
A crisp morning mist belies the April days
and plays hide and seek with the sun.
The pink of cherry blossom goes great with grey
but not with skies that hold such leaden looks.
There seems no reason why this season
should be so taciturn, except the highs and lows
of weather charts dance around in a false
waltz, unseasonal and unreasonable.
It may be that May will pave the way
for better days and we shall be welcomed
with a heat haze… or a heatwave.
Frost has accosted the ground
and I have found nothing free of the freeze.
Several days now with sunlight
only highlighting the white
without significant warmth.
Bitter winds bite at fingers and face
and any trace of a mild respite is quite
remote.
Grass just grows longer and the weeds
seem stronger, despite the cold
and the hard solid earth.
How bulbs have the strength to break the
surface only Nature knows.
The burst of first shoots shows a bold
outlook that I can only envy.
Went to a local poetry group the other night for the first time in a while. An entertaining and uplifting couple of hours in great company.
Icy Runes
Wordspinning
whirlpools of poems
Rhymings that chimed with the times.
Sensuous and strident,
prescient and prophetic.
Thoughts translated
on outlooks of life.
Wally Smith 