jj1

Heart filled with tug boats.
Eyes filled with sea.
My journey begins
With you.
And ends with you and me. 
I’ll take you on my journey
Across the wilder sky
And we’ll share my sights 
And pleasures. 
Across the wider sea. 

Let’s journey across the ocean.
As far as our eye can see.
To a place of new adventure;
A place we’ve never been. 

A silhouetted skyline. 
Like camels standing tall. 
A caravan of buildings. 
A crumbling city wall. 

A cobbled busy alleyway.
A busy shopfront stall.
A peasant-  knee fold down.
A sudden wake up call. 

Soft music meanders.
Around the city street. 
And violins play pleasant. 
A pretty place to meet. 

I’ll take you on my journey………

The crowds, the busyness of stalls,
with purse, with shop intent,
conventional the street of stores
to every city sent,
built close to calm of Swansea Bay.

Yet walk the main road, find the green
of centre’s open space,
near where the old stone castle walls
of stern historic face,
mere youth to age of Swansea Bay.

How drab the car parks’ grey cement
with concrete stairs to street,
the constant city storm of cars
cause noise and dust to meet
while glistens sun on Swansea Bay.

Take time to rest at Wind Street bars,
there sip a glass of wine:
or stroll beside the former docks,
where old and new combine,
and moored the boats from Swansea Bay.

That bay of graceful curve and sand
from Mumbles to the Gower,
sees ships and ferries cross its mouth
as waves bring rippling power
to city’s wealth of Swansea Bay.

Through lacquer sun and tree shade dusk,
there wound the seaward flowing Usk,
with bridges which its waters cross
on stone rock piles where currents toss
their glinting heads out wavelet roll
as river seeks its Newport goal.
How shall I cross?
By ancient bridge, four fifty years
as Brecon’s span where road careers
across each arch, now widened much
to cope with crawling traffic touch?
Or shall I cross?
The bridge with tower standing stark,
marks entrance into Glanusk Park,
a guard that might a stranger seize
who seeks to roam its slopes and trees?
Or dare I cross?
Another bridge my eyes have found,
a crossing that is water bound,
an aqueduct for barge and boat
that on canal to Monmouth float?
Here won’t I cross?
By Abercynrig’s minor stream,
to reach the river Usk its dream,
a road bridge stalled on bank, then lost,
meant here the brook would not be crossed!
Refuse to cross?
Like tree, be still from dawn to dusk,
to watch the silent, flowing Usk?

Bring joy.
Bring golden leaves.
Bring calm skies.
Bring stillness.
Bring silence. 

Arise autumn. 

Rejoice birdsong. 
Rejoice peace. 
Rejoice rainfall. 
Rejoice renewal. 
Rejoice life.

Arise autumn. 

Hear the wind.
Hear the waves.
Hear the showers.
Hear the fall.
Hear it all.

Arise autumn. 

Sense the sleep.
Sense the dark. 
Sense the bleak. 
Sense the bark.
Sense it all.

Arise autumn. 

Set the clock. 
Set the time.
Set the day.
Set the chime.
Set the call. 

Arise autumn.

Play the notes.
Play the song.
Play the day.
Play it long.
Play the tune. 

Arise Autumn. 

Sleep the night.
Sleep the day. 
Sleep the months.
Sleep away.
Sleep deep. 

Sleep today. 

Arise Autumn

What are we for
What do we do
Where do we go.

I’m sure you’ve asked yourself these questions.

We are such clever souls
We can put our hand to anything
If we put our minds to it. 

Sometimes we get stuck
But then we become unstuck.

We are miracles of this universe. 
Look after yourself;
Your mind; your soul;
Your physical health. 

You’re worth it. 

You were given the gift of being here.
Being alive;
Being happy;
Being loved.
And having the gift to love others. 

I’ve found my calling now. 

And that is to be kind
To be caring
To listen.
To give. 
To share.
To bring joy 
To your family 
And your friends. 

Take this day 
To remember 
That life is just 
‘A second’
In the vast 
Time of 
The universe.

And we are only 
Given 
Split seconds. 

Make every
Second 
Count.

Love yourself
And above all 
Love life. 

It’s a gift.

A gaze 
A laze; 
An autumn haze.

Still is the air.
Quiet; contemplative.
But oh so clear. 

Days like this 
Come but once a year. 
Silenced beautiful;

And reflective; 
Of those so dear. 

Stop. And stare.
Wherever you are. 

Look up to the clouds. 
And look hard; and far. 

Days are precious. 
Days are real. 

Stare for one minute. 
And see how you feel. 

Time is in years;
Time is in months;
Time is in days; 

And time is in us. 

Take the time in all your ways;
To remember we’re here………

To enjoy ‘all’ our days.

It is better to forget and be happy
Than remember and be sad
The bitterness of poor quality remains long after the sweetness of low price is forgotten
A cod fish lays ten thousand eggs
The homely hen lays one
The cod fish never cackles
To tell you what she’s done
And so we scorn the cod fish
While the humble hen we prize
Which only goes to show you
That it pays to advertise
It pays to advertise

Here was an important job to be done and everybody was asked to do it.
Anybody could have done it but nobody did.
Somebody got very angry about that, because it was everybody’s job.
Everybody thought anybody could do it, but nobody realised that everybody wouldn’t do it
It ended up that everybody blamed somebody when nobody did what everybody could have done

Some men are born to lead others to be led
Advice is seldom welcome, and those who need it the most always like it the least.

They came to Swansea stadium
like stars at some palladium:
for victory were any keener
to win the cup in that arena?

Yes, Hakin had been there before,
but Tenby opened new found door,
their black and red would win the day,
surprising people with their play.

Excitement grew, the whistle blew,
much pride at stake, as they all knew:
the dreams rose high when Tenby scored,
one-nil shone bright upon the board!

Can all come true, this fairy tale?
Let eyes be closed, don’t see them fail!
Hakin United’s playing too –
experience might see them through:

three goals they scored – could Tenby make
response in time so hearts won’t break!
A Tenby goal: for equal strived:
none came, and Hakin had survived:

they raised the cup, fans filled with glee,
but Tenby, sad, would not agree
with any gloom’s despondency,
they played to best ability.

Good Tenby team with Tenby crowd,
they made themselves, their township, proud!
In league and cup they will maintain
their skills and aim, and honours gain.

Violins calmed the night.
Piano played gentle keys.
And it rained. 

The dark sky 
Bled silence. 
And the violins 
Played. 

The horn spoke.

Applaud the clouds 
And uphold the air
Sing to the night.

Sing everywhere. 

It rained.

Farewell, Criccieth, our holiday is done,
we’ve enjoyed our stay, we’ve enjoyed our fun,
shared together in caravan, on beach
as the sun has shone,
we’ve all got brown:
rain has come and gone 
that caused a frown
but did heights of pleasure, of oneness reach.

The seagulls high swirled and tossed
over waves that wet embossed
each sandy shore twice a day
while chill winds made dune grasses sway.

Goodbye, Criccieth, our energy is spent,
and our money too, but it was clearly meant
as a period of change and needful rest
in the climb of mount,
though tired we were,
things that really count
were made to stir,
made to know refreshment at soul’s request.

The Autumn comes, swallows turn
to their homes, inside they yearn
for waiting friends, well known ways
strengthened by their distant days.

Farewell, Criccieth, we leave your house and shore,
but the pictures held in memory’s store
shall, in Winter’s enfolding dark and chill,
be a solace warm,
a comfort’s fire,
bring strength to form,
the soul inspire,
brief restore some moments of Summer’s thrill.

I see the Menai Strait:
Without both its bridges.

Naked of all its man made-ness.
Void of time.

By the ‘Long Wall of Wales.’

I imagine cattle waders
And farmer traders;

And brave perilous sailors;
Shipwrecked and buried by sand.

I see waves wind turbulent
And whirlpools subservient;

And houses beached malevolent.

I see the Strait of Time;

That is both ‘yours’;
and mine…

Let’s bless the Menai Strait.

Oh how I wish I had the words
to match the memory,
imagination’s sand
reality
that slips through longings to express
the beauty that I see,
the power sensed and felt
of wooded Wye and Tintern’s stone,
the wave soaked cliffs of Pembroke’s coast,
how Cader Idris scrapes the sky,
yes, even steel works grey with dust,
and dark mouth adits long forgot…

Oh how I wish I had the words
to link my memory
to your desire to see
reality,
and thus to sense, to grasp, to hold
the world around your world,
by it inspired,
there, in your room,
to walk the valleys, climb the mounts,
to hear each thrush and chapel sing,
from Newport out to Anglesey
your journey
through such words.

Above Llanberis near the foot of Snowdon
on Betws-y-Coed road, its tarmac line
a weary winding through the grassy foothills,
beside a lake which gleams in heaven’s shine:

a lay-by overlooking silent waters
whose dancing shades call gently back the sight
of mountains’ waves, beneath their heathered risings
of Autumn hues, with breaks of snowy white:

a roadside map the vista clear displaying
too cold for study, Snowdon peak in cloud –
but smile your open face transforms so warmly
when, hand in hand, we run with hopes part vowed:

for there I see those lapping waters lighting
their brightness in the blueness of your eye,
reflections which are symbols of a freedom
arising in your heart’s desire to fly,

transported far above the aching worries
of earth’s ensnaring cells and window bars,
to sky’s pure ether of your dream’s contentment
that lies awaiting you midst glowing stars.

Such freedom glances, with its quiet questions,
through eyes that wonder at the future state
of friendship newly found and slowly forming
its pattern in us by Llanberis slate.

Ports docked and clocks watched.
And a new view from the ships watch.

Pilot boat close and tidal swell.
Pilot leaps and ship horns yell-
Goodbye. And thank you.

And a safe farewell.

Journey north to Norway bound.
Silent sea and safe sea sound.
Captain call at twelve midday.

Weather fair for sail away.

Whales alert and fountains spray.
Passengers shout- hip-hip hooray.
What indeed a happy day.

Sun stays still and sky stays bright.
No sleep tonight as far too light.

Set the clock for Northern Cape.
Another hour to stay awake.
Another hour to sit and paint.

There’s a lake beside Llandrindod Wells,
not large like those of which Lake District boasts,
small, unmoving in a bowl of trees,
and lacking energy of wilder coasts:
café’s there, prestigiously supported,
providing snacks, cake, drinks, and some main courses:
watch the customers, while eating,
swan heads appearing, eyeing human forces,
met when gliding on the water,
with humans there by use of lakeside service,
hiring, paddling their canoes and kayaks,
as mallard laughter drifts across the surface.
All this for locals,
for passing tourists,
their parents, children,
but for the purists
stand the bird hides for the watchers
beholding nature, climate change concern,
set among soft hills well wooded,
enhanced when comes the evening sundown burn,
finger gestures, gold to fiery red,
that richly spread within the lake and town,
before Llandrindod wakes to dawning gown.

My lady climbed a mountain,
Pen-y-Fan by name,
from Storey Arms she started,
rising path to tame;

she thought she would be lonely,
there was quite a crowd,
like her, with one ambition,
stand above the cloud;

she marched across the moorland,
double bent by wind,
until she reached the summit.
resting there she grinned:

with sense of her achievement,
stood where ice and snow
were left from passing Winter,
viewed the world below;

once moment passed for photos,
faced the downward ice,
which meant she had to scramble,
falling’s never nice;

returned she thus to Brecon,
staying there a spell
with mountain climbing story,
one I’m proud to tell!

Llandrindod Wells: full praise of bells?
Perhaps a hint of sombre knells?
Bright days of Queen Victoria
with spa, smart shops, emporia?
They came, top hats and crinoline,
landaus and broughams, class within,
or sky steam etched above the station,
close Metropole and Spa relation,
find sparkling social jocularity,
wealth talks with pleasures’ insularity.

February – not a good time of the year
to see a place that’s melancholy near.

However, Rock Park and its Spa
narrate a tale things better are:
a few cars parked: comes out and leaves
a youngish man, no golden sheaves
of income: maybe more’s hidden
by heritage: sees many bidden
in Summer months for pleasure there
despite despondence in the air.

The river Ithon and its waterfall
turns thoughts to beauty plunge and call.

Where is the wide array of shops –
perhaps a sign the standard drops,
like those now barbers, second-hand,
and charities’ fund-raising band:
in faded towns such often gather,
with frothy coffee, hair style lacquer:
seek rather, shops of special themes
to captivate a buyer’s dreams,
that cater for the specialist,
put new ideas upon their list:
such places show an energy,
and speak a lively strategy. 

Llandrindod has its history,
lie better days in mystery
of coming years, restoring much
with new creative culture touch.

Step from the George, out in the night,
with midnight drizzle in the air,
no car, no person, come to sight,
a bird takes off to see me there: 

each street and building has a name
but shadows turn them into one,
they darkly glower I’m to blame
but black they look without day’s sun,

while moonlight has been sacrificed
by gloomy clouds and rainy veil,
the shine of street lights just sufficed
to hint at pavements for my trail.

The buildings from across the road
suppressed are by the larger rooves,
while smaller ones lie in their shade
and more are crushed in alley grooves:

a silence heavy is disturbed
by constant tumbles of the Usk,
the churning waters kept perturbed,
white swirling waves in midnight dusk:

cathedral and the castle towers
hang black and sombre in the clouds,
the barrack walls speak other powers,
that strength, not faith, brings blood its shrouds;

my presence found the main road lies
with empty bus stops, journey done:
the rain’s now heavy from the skies
on world asleep and day hours shun:

my coat’s grown wet, my spirit damp,
around a bend my footsteps forge
down terraced street, no light of lamp,
to where waits bed in Hotel George.

It’s pleasant to walk at ease beside
a quiet old canal,
a very common thing to do
that some may think banal:

appears canal as a silent water
next to a towing track,
bright fields lie flat to a river bank,
a bridge casts shadows black:

past trees over mallards on parade
when there’s no moving craft:
are lime kilns standing dark and silent
whose mouths with fire once laughed

but that was when all the barges came
with cotton, lime and coal,
and by such goods mill towns were growing
and building up their soul. 

Away from the town the quiet deepened
to meet the spirit’s need,
except when cyclist rushes by
on journey’s aim at speed. 

The Summer sees how the mood can change,
canal trips and canoes,
the picnic sites with people filled
near where their cars can cruise. 

The mood turns normal with human life
though there’s not much to see,
but come there past the daylight sun
find gentle place there be. 

Though for a while such canals become
a playground for the world,
when Autumn rises, calm returns,
a strengthening peaceful pearl.

Slip away a day 
And sail above the clouds.
Leave behind your thoughts.
And silence all that’s loud.

Look up above your head
And look far down below.
Forget all your troubles.
And forget all your woes.

Where shall you journey?
Where shall you go? 
Far from your troubles;
Far from your woes. 

Enjoy your adventure.
Enjoy your time alone.
Turn your head all around;
And venture far from home. 

Slip away a day
And sail above the clouds. 
Leave behind your thoughts.
And silence all that’s loud.

The glint of sunshine, lace curtain mist,
in stately quadrille on the ridge,
fades in, fades out the adjacent mount
where steep escarpments form a bridge

upon the which, with a flexing nerve,
and drive of legs in hand of will,
the walker reaches towards the height
of Snowdon’s challenge, rocky thrill,

combined with drizzle of tumbling stones,
disturbed by crunching rhythmic boots
as moves progress up the steepening track
against the mock of engine hoots:

the warmth of café and coffee cup,
as rope of comfort, dangles down
to draw the hiker across the rocks
until they reach the mountain’s crown,

where clouds pass over, the vista fades
as early June brief scatters snow,
the breeze is chilled and the fingers freeze,
hot soup, warm room the things to know.

To climb by train an attractive choice,
in ancient carriage, plume of smoke,
but walker seeks both the calm and power
which, through the soul, will pride invoke.

The sun still sets 
And the waves still sail.
The bridge sits still
And gulls still wail.

The cliffs rock still
And the trees knit-knot.
The cars hum drum.
And the clouds spit spot.

Away from Wales
The ships stop dock.
And the boats criss cross
Along the meridian clock. 

Faces now new 
And dialects so strange.
New friendships emerge 
As conversations exchange.

Away from Wales
Traditions still sing;
Dancing and laughter
And costumes with hymn.

Away from Wales 
Traditions prevail;

With joy, song, and laughter;

And a bright sunny sail.

On David’s day our 
Beloved daffodils will sway
And the little will play all day 
In the field and vale the banners 
Fly with pride and we will
Stand tall and proud 
On Saint David’s day our
Beloved day ans with 
Songs of old the nation’s
Love implied we celebrate our
Favourite day as laughter 
Fills the air around Wales
With courage drawn from faith
We find our will and 
Together wrapped in the
Warmth we stand as one 
Welsh and proud so let’s us 
Stand united hand in hand and we’ll 
Celebrate the heart of Saint David’s Day
So God bless all us Welsh on 
Saint David’s Day.

Ride on, queen Rhiannon,
mother of kings,
hidden in mystery of ages,
Ride on, queen Rhiannon,
mystic your tale,
Narberth pre-castle as prison
Ride on, queen Rhiannon,
proudly your tales
though come the days of the conqueror,
Ride on, queen Rhiannon,
images count,
stirring the heart of the nation.

What does one make of Barry?
A town wherein to tarry?
The island walk’s quite pleasant,
points out to sea as crescent
of houses, beach and fairground,
two spits of trees and bare ground,
An island reached by causeway
with harbour, road and railway….

What does one make of Barry?
A town wherein to tarry?

An empty dock and rusted tracks
with history upon their backs,
lie shops and houses up the hill
from shopping centre lacking thrill –
but walking on beyond the streets,
upon the cliff the walker meets
a spread of grass and sea-bright view
which draw the feet and township through

What does one make of Barry?
A town wherein to tarry?

Oh, the rain! The rain! The rain it poureth,
and the gloom of the city see how it soareth!
Silent voices of the windscreen wipers,
in the swish of their blades, are like droning pipers,

while afloat on downpour, on its vapour,
high above every street, for a swim and caper,
swans go gliding, have no need of ocean
or a river in spate, just a storm’s commotion:

there the people stooped with their umbrellas,
they’ve no sociable spirit, no time for fellas,
want a place of comfort, place of dryness,
and their surge for a refuge abandons shyness,

but the buildings stare and lean with greyness,
seem to feel with the people a sort of sameness,
wish cessation to the gusting raining
though the sky, says appearance, dislikes complaining –

there’s no smile in clouds, rejecting sunlight,
who believe that a rain-burst’s a kind of bunfight,
unaware that Swansea prays a yearning
that the rain will disperse, see the sun returning.

Christmas trees, and mistletoe, and wine.

But what is Christmas really about?

A boy who went to school.

Who joined us here on earth one day 

And never tried to rule.

He taught us good from bad

And gave us love above all.

He saved us from ourselves 

And gave us Christmas Yule.

Today is December, the month 

That reminds us all,

That ‘love’ is all that matters

And joy will save us all. 

A piece of wood, of ebony,
adrift in grey-cream ripples
that break, cascading constancy,
in cove nearby Penarth:
that driftwood moves, takes form upon
the pebbled beach as we
stand staring, watching, motionless
above on coastal path.
A seal comes flopping, grinding on
the stones, with arching back,
then thrusting back, dragged forward by
its flat non-gripping paws,
its flippers useless, numb-dead legs,
yet heaves he upward to
a cliff base splash of water, brief
his drink: he twists, explores,
discovers flotsam branch, a sea
deposit where he rolls upon
his back and greets the sun.

But is that not the mode of life…
from out the darkness of
our timelessness, or dimness of
our yesterday, so we emerge?
Before us lies the waiting task,
the looming struggle, over
the stones of doubt, the rocks of weakness,
the pebbles of our ignorance:
reluctant is the heart, and yet
we heave ourselves towards the aim…
refreshed upon our way,
completed is the task,
the struggle fades,
and we can rest,
relaxed to greet the sun!

What could be more beautiful 
Than sunlight on the shore 
And a little boat out rowing 
And just paddling with one ore.

What could make you happier 
Than the sound of passing geese
And seeing golden plane trails
Drawing lines from west to east. 

What could be more magical 
Than aurora’s painted skies 
And watching blue and pink turn
Red; and then green with great surprise. 

What could be more magnificent 
Than a heron as still as stone 
And seeing a super rainbow 
From far away to home. 

What could be more mindful 
Than hearing nothing at all
Except for leaves that crackle 
And the sounds of autumn’s fall. 

What could be more mystical 
Than the foggy mountain’s haze
And the sunset bursts arising 
From the planet’s heating days.

On a day like today…

What could be more beautiful

‘Mummy can you help me
I need you to come now
For Bozo has gone missing
And I’m going to tell you how’

‘His friends were in the toy box
When one of them awoke
To find the snake’s long ladder
In pieces and all broke’

‘Oh mummy where has Bozo gone
He didn’t take his coat
Do you think he met the Captain
To go on board his boat’

‘But the Captain’s on the shore today
That lake is frozen bare
Now let us think a moment
As he’s hiding out somewhere’

‘Do you think he’s left us Mummy
And ran away from home
Oh, Bozo we all love you
You’re lost and all alone’

But Bozo was a canny bear
And knew where he would go
But as he left the house that night
He stumbled in the snow

Then off he ran across the square
In search of food to eat
And when he saw a doggy’s bowl
He munched on chunks of meat

But soon the night was over
When Mummy and her child
Followed all his footsteps
Into the unknown wild

And in the woods they found him
Eating berries on a trunk
And as he looked down on them
He threw several from his bunk

‘My tummy did a rumble
 And a tumble in the night
So I got up and crept outside
When you were out of sight’

‘Now come with us you naughty bear
You’ve put us in a tiss
My infant child’s been crying
Don’t you know how much your missed’

‘I’m staying here to lay my head
And enjoy the midnight sky
No matter what you think of me
Turn around and say goodbye’

‘Bozo you climb down from there
As you will catch a cold
Your friends are waiting patiently
What a story to be told’

‘Well, I have one that I can tell
Of a journey I did take
When I went trekking in the snow
To catch a ride upon the lake’

‘Until two mischief beings
Came upon my spot
And told me in unfriendly terms
Now move, you’ve had your lot’

As another day begins to dawn
A piercing sound I hear
It is the clock beside my bed
That screams at me so near

And as I place my hand upon it
To block its constant cry
The noise is stopped at once – hooray!
So I lay down and sigh

But as I snuggle deep within
The comfort of my bed
The motion of the clock I hear
‘Get up, you’re not yet dead’

Tick tock, tick tock
The rhythm of the clock
As the time of day is racing by
I shout out loud ‘please stop’

But the clock it does not listen
It covers up its ears
So once again I raise my voice
‘Be quiet, I’m sleeping here’

Then the clock becomes defiant
As time is on its side
And as its hands turn round and round
I slide down the bed to hide

But even in the darkness
Trapped and all alone
The calling of the clock surrounds me
In the bedroom of my home

And so we start to argue
As it tries to get its way
‘Get out of bed you lazy thing
Get dressed and start your day’

This clock it does annoy me
But what is it I can do?
Then suddenly a thought pops up
I’ll drop it down the loo!

Then its petty voice can’t wake me
In the early morning light
And work will be a distant dream
As I roll over and say ‘goodnight’!

I look into the mirror
But what is it that I see?
The person that I once did know
No longer looks at me

Where are you I now ask of them?
You’ve left me all alone
The face that I once recognised
Now lost within my bones

For somewhere they are lurking
Behind that sad façade
Not willing to reveal themselves
To a face that’s now turned hard

The look that I once had when young
No longer in my sights
For the life that I have lived so far
Diminished all its light

The greying of my golden locks
The weakness in my eyes
The drooping of my muscles
Sagging flesh now gently lies

The wrinkles and the furrows
Shadows growing over time
The aging of a face I loved
Now showing all the signs

But there is nothing I can do to stop
The onslaught of this sin
My looks have changed forever
And so have I within

Clouds spine and buzzards whine;
And cirrus scrawl.

Birds still and moles hill.
And brambles sprawl.

Winds whisper and leaves quiver;
And apples fall. 

Train chuffs and chatter puffs.
And stations call.

Planes play and faunas hay;
And spiders crawl. 

Trees twig and burrows dig. 
And rabbits wall. 

Mice mass and ribbons grass;
And tractors stall. 

Nights dark and dogs bark; 

And autumn’s call.

Silver grass ribbons slip through my fingers
and salty sciroccos warm bathe my face.

Sunken shadows hide behind pebbles.
And tide dropped shells pop up with grace.

Waves rollercoaster over and over.
Breaking like thunder; spreading like lace.

Dunes amber wonder turning each corner;
Shedding old memories of a lost hidden place.

Above, beyond the swirling car park
before the modern supermarket,
its marching trolleys purchase laden –

above, beyond the bypass traffic
that metals by the small bus station,
that halts, light ordered, at the junctions –

above, beyond the rooves of buildings
around St. Mary’s tower as gathered,
important halls and narrow alleys –

above, beyond the river valley
where moody Usk flows, silent, hidden,
and through old Brecon’s world meanders –

above, beyond each passing era
of human tears and exultations,
together loved, together lonely –

above, beyond, at patient distance,
like ancient parents, still and watching,
the brooding heights of Brecon’s Beacons,

whose moorland summits moan of stillness,
of timeless life where lies our fullness.

From Pontypridd to Los Angeles
he’s swung across the world,
gyrating hips,
beat-crooner’s lips,
with pulsing rhythms and ballad ease
on albums punters stirred.
That baritone of rich, dark tones
brought universal fame,
from green grassed home
left coal for chrome
since records sold in all worldly zones,
unusual usual came.
At sexy image of pussycat
Delilah tossed her pants,
upon the stage
her hopes engage
with dreams of moments in sex bomb’s flat,
fire memory that haunts.
But onward travelled his aging flame,
old roots of rock’n’roll
on discs found way,
as hair turned grey,
and faith religion of praise and blame
enjoined his knighthood call.

Blanket warm the feathers  
And cloud loud the call. 

Row fast the weathers
And net knot the trawl.

Low down the noise 
And gentle rest the view.

Wave soft the paddles
And whistle down a few. 

Quiet down the chatter
And rest nest the mast. 

Drop dock the anchor  
And home haul the cast.

Today I walked in springtime 
And gathered all my thoughts.

The day was warm and gentle 
And the shadows quiet and short. 

The flowers were pink surprising
And the wind was warm and kind. 

The path was daisy pettled
And the sky was long and lined. 

Today I walked in happiness
And breathed a different way. 

My mind was clear and settled
And my thoughts were washed away. 

Today I will remember; 
I walked a different way.

Dolgellau, grey of buildings, grey as town
with quaintness in its narrow streets,
St. Mary’s Church, tower standing over all,
stone ancient guard for shops and square,
including leafy covered inn, the “Royal Ship”,
hotel whose better days have slipped
away, and cries for some refurbishment,
but still can comfort give to those who stay,
like us, hill climbing aims in mind.

With skies a piebald cloud-and-blue,
along and up a lane we went,
by spirit of desire that grew
for climbing Cader Idris sent:
towards Llyn Gwernan trudging drew,
ignored its hotels’ hoppy ales
since car park lay ahead we knew
where the ascending stone track hails
to welcome climbers’ ready tread,
then beckoned upward, steeply led:

so there we came
beneath dark Cader’s heavy wrath
that we must tame
now we’d embarked on well-worn path
beside a farm,
below the sun-glanced leaves of trees
by dancing balm
of stream that carved the sloping leas:
on first ascent,
in gentleness before the graft,
we quickly went
as Cader’s cliff face mocking laughed
in disbelief
that we possessed the vital strength,
so come to grief
before we reach his summit’s length:

but undeterred
onward we pressed,
each pebbly cairn
was swift addressed,

by stony track,
by blackened bogs,
our robust feet
and muscle cogs
advanced us irrepressibly towards
the boulder crop,
until we came to Cader Idris height
and proudest top,
the world of hill and lake below our feet
to distant sea,
a place where mount to walkers’ strong resolve
must bow the knee,

until, once done our moment’s reign,
returned we down the path again

Vole, Mole, Stoat and Weasel met on a environmental interest site, hence shared the same values, became strong friends and thank the spider for making this website.

They built their home together under a beech tree amongst bluebell woods and then published their first environmental magazine that went underground at first. They later employed three moles to press extra copies as fast as they could.

Each day they set off with their plastic bags cleaning litter from beach and sand dunes to look pristine. Their motto “Newton flora and fauna would be better without litter”.

Oliver Owl would collect their crisp packets of rubbish. They’d clap their paws as Owl took off. Oliver would do a night flight to council recycling at Happy Valley depot.

Vole, Mole Stoat and Weasel think Oliver Owl should be awarded for his voluntary work in Porthcawl, with a Community Certificate to be hung on eagerly awaited New Marina wall. So spare a thought for all the creatures that reside with us and love Porthcawl with a passion, people, place and views, then read their first edition of the flora and fauna preservation magazine news.

Though not sea creatures themselves (they very rarely put on their knitted woolly cozzies and have a Newton dip before dawn), Vole, Mole, Stoat and Weasel show concern about their sea-living friends’ health from boat diesel.

Puddles bright 
And sea shore gleams. 

Brighter skies
And sunbeam screams. 

Paddled tweets
And shells tip-tup. 

Driftwood graves
And grass sits up.

White sift sand
And footsteps filled.

Long shore streams 
And rocks full spilled.

Mountains glaze
And skies thread thin.

Water wallows. 
And waves twist spin. 

Shadows shorten 
And days tick tock.

Showers shimmer…

And rainbows clock.

Spirits lift
And skies drift. 

And pebbles poke. 

Puddles light
And kites bright.

And mountains rope.

Dunes drift 
And shadows shift.

And shorelines cope. 

Waves crawl 
And feathers sprawl. 

And seagulls boat.

Rocks still
And gulls bill.

And spirit’s spoke…

It was blowing a gale the day that we walked
intent on climbing the Worm’s Head,
but the force of the wind on causeway of rocks,
combined with the tide, saw our plan dead.

To Rhossili we turned to further our jaunt
along the road to the high Down,
rising steeply and bleakly length of the beach,
pale green of grass with the dark brown

leaves of bracken and peat by slipping of streams:
while stared wild ponies and white sheep,
we inspected stone piles – pre-history rocks
where ancients lay in their long sleep,

scattered cairns from the Bronze Age close to the peak –
and there we looked on the pale sea,
churned by squalls into foam cascades as they danced
and surfed to shore on a beach spree.

Through the churchyard we passed, but paused and observed
unusual scroll among headstones,
on the gate were a sun-dial, rope in a coil,
both carved reminders of dead bones,

Evans lost in the ice on Scott’s final venture,
a local man at the South Pole,
who was born up a lane in house with a plaque
near ruined barn and a dew-hole.

With the wind unabated, walking now over,
fresh bodies getting to feel stale,
to the Worm’s Head Hotel we sought some refreshment,
relaxed with cheeses and real ale.

Overnight, the mist stole in like a thief
and now only innuendo and gist
dress the spartan view beyond the window.

Its gossamer threadbare veil, billowing
with the breeze, snags upon the hedge and trees,
revealing occasional brief glimpses
as from a porthole or a train passing.

All is boiled down to the question: ‘Well…?’
and, though we know that its cool dampness will
cling to our hair, our clothes, seep to our bones,
we can’t resist lacing our shoes again
to step outside and find, or lose, ourselves.

Snow puffed hedges
And cobwebbed trees.
White night daylight
And cold face breeze.

Sun gazed lanolin
And trough full fill.
Anoracked hooves
And grass pulled chill.

Deep squeak boots
And cold foot frown.
March square up
And slow step down.

Red berried baubles
And cattle snapped twigs.
Frost flat leaves
And deep dog digs.

Frosty white butterflies
And glitter globe skies.
Stiff still garden;
And silent bird cries.

Shy shadowed feathers.
And bull rush dew.
Frozen paddles
And rock still pew. 

Lanterned cattle
And light lit shed.
Lunar glistens;
Time for bed.

Swallowed Perfume and Lesser Roses

Autumn’s silver song
Hums light.
And dappled apples
Fall; pecked and dropped.

Cobwebs spread
And spiders flick
And tick away
tiny leaves.

Butterflies fade
And gentler flowers
Close their eyes
To the quieter days of still.

Buzzards violin
And clouds spread thin
As the new moon
Squints early.

And the brighter stars
Awaken; to the
Darkened nights
Of Winter.

————

Happy Days

Whenever you get stressed or sad.
Remember to be glad.
All in life is not all bad
And happy days are had.

Try and breathe and remember 
Your good days as a child. 
Play and laughter was so much fun
And climbing trees was wild.

Whenever you get stressed or sad
Remember those who feel worse.
Their days are very stressful
And their tears about to burst. 

Think about the small things 
That brighten up your day. 
They might be tiny flowers 
Or something like sweet hay. 

Whenever you get stressed or sad
Take a second breath.
Cherish all your happy days 
And remember:
The ones you’ve had. 

But most of all remember 
That sad days never last. 
And that happy days do prevail 
And long will ever last.

————

My rock is my might. 
My light. 
My night. 

My sea is my ore. 
My awe.
My core. 

My sky is my
Sight: my bright.
My law. 

My sand is 
My hand. 
My land.

My door.

————

Fair waved her slender light brown arms,
a soft and tender flow of waves
as if the soft and tender need of heart
was gently singing in her veins-

her fingers fluttered, feathers caught
in breeze of mind where search of doubt
could find the lyric to express a mood
and let affection’s feelings out –

but can be harsh
her voice’s power
when anger’s pain
insists to shower

who hear beyond the long thin spine
that reaps her sound but can’t portray
impassioned eyes and drama’s pulse of lips
when high emotion stirs her state:

enmeshed in counterpane of sound,
the sweep of strings and rhythmic brass,
her eyes at absent figure dream a stare
as song recounts a tragic place,

on stage, on disc,
in cabaret
sings diva star
from Cardiff Bay.

————

We stroll once more down arbored avenues,
hands overlapped and clasped against the chill;
our talk drifts like woodsmoke over the ‘still
sad music of humanity’ subdued
as a radio droning in another room.

So, it is time to take account again
of our memories, each in their dappled hues.
of silver, bronze and gold now flickering
like sunlight falling for a second time.

Look here – in every corner they accrue,
a king’s ransom, and we shuffle our way
laughing through the fragility of days
already gone, carefree because we know
that this is but the tiniest portion
of what we’ve cached for colder days to come.

You’ll share it all with me, and I with you.

————

On the first day of Christmas my new love gave to me
a lift to the station, on oat milk skinny latte,
a text with smiley faces, and, as I seemed like
the kind of bird who wouldn’t mind, one bird – to mind –
for the night.

On the second day of Christmas my new love gave to me
two texted silly jokes, avian-themed, two strange close-up photos,
rather intimate, the items already itemised, and,
if she wasn’t causing any hassle, could his partridge
just hang out for a while
in my tree?

On the third day of Christmas my new love gave to me
three calls to arrange the evening,
three lukewarm Pinot Grigios, and so, as I was feeling
somewhat mellow, I said – the cat’s just ignoring her.
It’s ok, she can stay a bit longer, while you get yourself sorted,
a little longer
in my pear tree.

On the fourth day of Christmas my new love surprised me
with four tickets to the footie
with two of his mates, who bought me four cuppas
because I was freezing, and I just gave that smug bird
a frosty glare as I shivered past it on the doorstep.
P.S. Too cross to list
the other things.

On the fifth day of Christmas my not-quite-so-new love
turned up with a £5 box of chocolate truffles,
(I know as he’d left the ticket on). He’d spotted
my snuffles from the footie, and, to keep me company,
he said he’d leave Polly,
for the week.

On the sixth day of Christmas, what was my treat?
I remember it well. An all-you-can-eat-for-£16 Indian buffet,
(far too much to be honest), and six mints,
and an After Eight, and all of the items
I’ve told you before, but I couldn’t taste anything,
and that bird, that cheery bird, chirruping away,
she kept me awake
all night.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
seven minutes of passion – I could be wrong about timings –
at the end of Jools Holland, at least I think
that’s what it was, unless he’d lost the remote, or my Kleenex.
He passed out. The partridge was wide-eyed though,
staring at me.
Was too confused for lists.

On the eighth day of Christmas he brought me nothing,
except eight hours of insomnia. He seemed distinctly distant.
So what did I have to show for the other seven days,
just a cold that wouldn’t budge, and my role
as unpaid bird minder?

On the ninth day of Christmas my love brought me
nine carnations and an I’m sorry card and a £9 set
of undies from the M&S sale. I know – I was with him
when he paid, and yes they do very nearly fit. We agreed –
not a tweet about birds, or pear trees,
for the day.

On the tenth day of Christmas it was strange, all change,
ten words I didn’t know I’d hear – We don’t want
to rush things, let’s take it slowly. Somehow the bird
picked up the vibe, stayed quiet
for once.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, what happened? Right.
Eleven hours of worrying as I was late;
eleven minutes of coming to my senses as he was late;
eleven seconds of shouting, but it was too late. And that partridge,
well she was still here, but
she kept well out of it.

On the twelfth day of Christmas – twelve minutes of grieving
as I packed up his stuff. You’d be amazed
how much a man can spread around in twelve days.
He took one load, said he’d be back for the rest,
but that was twelve hours ago,
and the partridge hasn’t gone…

————

Austere the arches heaven pointing
above rowed chairs where are expected
the coming Sunday’s congregations:
north aisle has frozen hanging standards
of loyalty and deeds historic:
while visitors eye Shepherd-Saviour
enshrined in sun-stained coloured window,
here moves a priest in green bright
chasuble,
his hands together clasped in shape of prayer,
solemnity has banished
facial smiles,
he bows, he kneels,
he utters sacred words,
the age-hold rituals of sacrament
for which his gathered people
quiet pray,
their long held never changing piety,
the soul of Brecon’s old cathedral
presiding over city’s spirit,
those changes that the times inherit,
preserves over city’s spirit,
those changes that the times inherit,
preserves the qualities of merit that will hold the future’s hopes solicit

————

It’s lonely on this platform: in fact, everywhere is bare:
bring passing rails no comfort as if they lie not there.
How will I pass my waiting in early evening gloom?
I know – I’ll learn to speak that name across the waiting room.

There’s no one here to hear me – embarrassment not mine:
is that an engine siren I’m sensing up the line?
I’d better get a move on, in whispers none can mock,
like Welsh who know the lingo for Llanfair-gogogoch.

Some syllables I’ve managed: correct? I cannot say,
it takes some concentration. My train is on its way!
It’s growing quite a challenge, yes, growing out of hand,
while nearby throb’s suggesting my train is at a stand –

but I am making progress: I’m coming to the end.
I win! But as I triumph, my train leaves round the bend!
The last one of the day – so I’m stranded: please don’t mock
at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

————

The Brunels’ dock, mud silted dock,
long since departed entry lock,
a floating harbour they had planned
not far from Aberavon sand,

by power station overlooked,
round which the Welsh Coast Path is hooked
near remnant jetty being used,
industrial store and nature fused:

above, the buzz-and-hum of cars
on motorway and main road jars
with placid flow of river’s pace,
that’s ever streamed before took place

the Brunel study and designs
of port to serve some shipping lines:
another line, sole railway track,
dead passes by, its business slack,
or so its gleam-less metals claim,
while cross the river, prows in shame,
lie boats in bed of muddy bank,
and stare at harbour, dull and dank

with weeds that greet the highest tide,
a view to both Brunels supplied
and seen by them when lived their hour
at Briton Ferry, marked by tower.

————

Scattered across abandoned cwms
they lie there, marooned and bleaching
like gutted crabshells in the sun.

On walks, I stop to ‘collect’ them,
imagine them alive again
and pulsing with the old Welsh hymns
instead of echoing
the clap of pigeon wings
that ring just like the slap
of Bibles closing.

Now, no-one reads their stone legends:
Bethel, Tabor, Tabernacl
erode into oblivion,
replaced by a new lexicon –

FOR SALE – RESTORATION – DEVELOPMENT.

Beside them, in their quiet plots
tended only by wind and rain,
the forgotten sleep on through broken dreams.

————

Foil chocolate bells
And Santa Claus.

Fine glass baubles.
So dear; now yours.

Scented tinsel
Still fluffy and thick.

Smells of Christmas
And old candle wick. 

Snow globe nostalgia
And glitter galore.

Fairy light wonder
And Christmas tree awe. 

Thank God for Christmas
for giving us grace: 

Of sight; of hearing, touch, smell, and taste. 

Happy Christmas!

————

The peacock buttery sits flat; magnificent; military-like; and luminous. 

A single small white feather lay earthed in solitude beneath my breath. 

Brown fingered buzzards soar low and brave. 

Weed waved knots grow back clump-like and strong. 

Mustard bubbled blooms return bright with sudden surprise. 

Extraordinary aromas spin through foggy air drafts hung. 

Gentled shadowed rabbits run. 

Field cuts gone- 

New grazes; hallowed and once again begun.

————

Rough belled garden
And dandelion faces.
Hop hop blackbirds
And bee hum traces.

High sky daylight
And evening lazes.
Long day light feast
And outdoor places.

Lawn lined clatter
And ton tipped grass spill.
Edge turned tidy
And neat clipped trim trill.

Dawn brew tea cup
And silvered sun gaze.
Duck pond wander
And goose wind loud phase.

Lilac operas
And bud burst spindles.
Leaf light lemons
And blue night dwindles.

————

Jane Griffiths-Jones, April 2021

Twist-cold winds ease
And a new breeze breathes fresh music
And sweeps gentle song along
The floor of nature’s spring toes.

Sunbeam raises its gaze
And sits warm along the ground
Of summer’s foot and untwisted leaves
Open shy with grace and glory.

New whistles settle
And grass-spill tides wave
To the weather of finished nest
And hum the song of those to rest.

Pink bells salute
And bumbled blossom breathes
To arrest with wide sunken gaze
Sweet appled smells of honey.

Lavender flutters tips
And rose hips split and fold
Into rainbows bent beautiful
Over thorned brambles set.

And tall fields bathe
And sail over past waves of time;
To surrender, and handover
What is now yours and mine.

————

Jane Griffiths-Jones, April 2021

Hoof paddled bracken
And pondweed frocks.

Rose scattered knitting
And spout spill rocks.

Brown feathered sky
And warm free gliders.

Hunt twist heads
And scrub air raiders.

Wind dust hoof
And straw faced stare.

Barren bellows
And wide-eyed hare.

Red silent scratch
And hollows howl.

Furrows burrow
And red ears prowl.

Wind dust rivers
And grit foot rolled.

Distant journals
Of Long Mynd’s old.

————

Jane Griffiths-Jones, April 2021

Pond twinned trees
And ether haze.
Silent hoof
And mirrored gaze.

Fox twist turn
And hunt fed face.
Shape shift moon
And white clocked Grace.

Black still night
And scattered star.
Candled clouds
And time so far.

Whispered walls
And warren watched.
Cold stream stretch
And grass pulled scratch.

Red tin roof
And silver slate.
Moss cold floor.
And tight shut gate.

Dawn pink glare
And stark tree light.
Day song sings.
Sleep cold night.

————

Jane Griffiths-Jones, March 2021

Seaside pockets
And buried shells.
Salt tongued silence
And white bird yells.

Stop still rocks
And seaweed splashes.
Tidal bowls
And urchin lashes.

Blue spilt skies
And black winged splatter.
Tall spire spill
And old bell clatter.

Paddled bird
And mirrored long legs.
Hazy shore
And rock still bird’s nests.

Kick cracked sand
And flat pushed pebbles.
Trodden foot
And sea bent puddles.

Golden grass
And sea-song starling.
Reverent signs
Of summer’s coming.

————

Jane Griffiths-Jones, March 2021

This poetry feature brings you a regular selection of prose from writers in and around Wales and borders.

A painter’s moving window
Framed by sea and sky.
A patterned map of faces
Of hazy passers-by. 

A fog-horned dingy
in a deep stacked fog.
A cerulean mirror.
An artist’s weather log.

A pop-up port
at every journey’s stop.
A stop watched whistle.
An early tidal drop.

A time travelled station
Steering knot and clock.
A foreign destination.
A dawning morning dock.

Sketched set cities
And foot marked streets.
Carried glass and pottery
And skin sweat heat.

Sail away silhouettes
of seabirds flying home.
Pastel sculptured scenery
And misty towns of stone.

Anchored time and memoirs
Of sea bound journeys end.
Sail silently in my pocket
Like a seaman’s tidal friend.

Words: Jane Griffiths-Jones, January 2021

Silent pebble;
Skimming stone.
War shorn shingle;
Thoughts of home.

Drunken fog;
Enemy drip.
Hallowed voice;
Sunken ship.

Air-torn sky;
Tumbled drum.
Air raid dunked;
Nothing won.

Wooden biscuits;
Fire lit skies.
Ring pulled rowing;
Silent cries.

Lanterned searches
And tangled whistles.
Missing planes
And seaweed thistles.

Silent nights
And moonlit drops.
Turning pages
Of twisted knots.

Heroed voice;
Tidal spill.
Rainbow roses;
Heroed will.

Words: Jane Griffiths-Jones, January 2021

Darkness welled o’er sea and land

While seabirds wailed prescient command,

Beyond soft silence gathered pace

As calm spread through this heav’nly place.

With stoic strength, majestic domes

Of agéd mountains, resting high,

Gave up their grandeur to the storm

As deeper sank the purpling sky.

With lightning flash, with thunder roll,

All quiet fled as Nature’s soul

With pent up passion held so long,

Her power released, poured forth her song.

In wave on wave, her thund’rous tears

Washed down the land, helped quell her fears

That able, blinkered, man should deign,

To change her form and cause such pain.

At length her hurt, assuaged away,

With passions spent, the darkened day

Did lose its hold and brightness crept

Across where sea and river met.

Warm sun rekindled life’s rich vein,

The mountains, cleansed, emerged again

And all of Nature’s forms ‘cept one

Affirmed her power, her dominion.

That one, called man, raised darkened brow

With challenge laid for when and how

To harness power, to meet his goal –

…..To break and conquer Nature’s soul!

————

Words: Dr Ian P Crofts

Tick tock jolt.
Broken yawn.
Slice of moon.
Early dawn.

Sea spilt fog.
Honeyed sun.
Bath filled ditch.
Chalk stain gone.

Paddled dog.
Broken twig.
Snapshot rhythm.
Grizzled spit.

Hazel carpet.
Mushroom Sweat.
Hair long grass.
Grey wall Grit.
Chimneyed whistle.
Wood spilt smoke.
Amber myth.
Christmas hope.

————

Jane Griffiths-Jones, November 2020