Globe thistles and Marguerites -

                     the glory of our summer garden.............

 

The Spare Room

I think of this small room as mine,

but know it isn’t; that others

come and go – fleeting shadows -

and gaze at the painting of azure seas.

When I return, there are still the shells

heaped and heady with a tang of salt.

Clasping their roughness to my ears

there’s the hissing lure of pounding surf.

Each day the quivering curtains

filter translucent light and warmth

on to my cool skin and pale wrists,

where blue-veined river deltas run.

I lie, drinking in the comforting view;

nothing is new, though time is less

and seasons seamlessly change,

like old dreams – an endless reprise.

 

 

(Published in 'Reach Poetry', June 2016)

 

Daffodils

You could say they saved
my life that day;
a limp bunch past their best -
or so I thought.
Speared leaves already tired,
traded for a fistful of change
and thrust into the first jar to hand.

But by morning they had revived,
come alive in the warmth
and now they face the world -
sun bright in their innocence.
They try their best with their
elusive scent that is balm
and succour to me.

I gaze long  in to their shady depths.
"Come on, come on," they whisper
just to me, "don't give up."

So, I can't and I haven't. Not yet.

Sue Burley
2000

...daffodils are my favourite Spring bulbs and are flowering early this year due to a mild winter.
If I am out of kilter with life, these flowers have the power to restore hope and wellbeing.

 

..... now we are heading towards Spring, Winter has really begun; with sunny blue skies and  frosted grass and seed heads.  These photos were taken down in 6 Acre Meadow....

 

 

 

Seed heads of Giant Burdock

Teazle Seed heads

Oak Leaves with the frosted stems
of Rosebay Willow Herb
 

Happy New Year to Everyone ....

..... Sadly, no snow for us this Christmas., or New Year!  
I have a sledge for the grandchildren, which has not been in use for at least two years. We are promised a cold snap in February, so here's hoping,and now for a snowy poem...........

Boxing Day – Nonsuch Park

We conjured up the long lost sounds
Of Henry hunting here with hounds,
Across the oak-edged rolling fields
Once ranged by stag and gentle hind

Gone are the herds of roaming deer,

The flying manes and glittering eye.

No hunting horns blow sharp and clear,

Yet still we love to walk through here.

Today the ice gleams on the trees,

The fields flow silver like the sea,

And larches softly drape their boughs

With lace of frosted filigree.


Above the dense, dark wooded hills,
The pale moon lies in turquoise sky.
Caught in time we stare, quite still
                            
                                  at parakeets with rosy bills.
 

Sue Burley

 

Might this be God…?

Could this be God then,

          when the rugged old oak

splashes rain on my head?

Or when the brisk wind

            snatches at my hair

and lifts the load from my back?

Might this be God then

            when the lime tree scatters
the earth with luminous yellow hearts?

 

Or when the scarlet rose hips

            glossy with dew, spread
the power of peace within me?

 

Could this truly be God then

          when wind, leaves, earth and rain

create in me this happiness?


©Sue Burley

2015

At St. John's Church, here at home, Remembrance Day is kept on the nearest Sunday, (this year, the 8th November.)  After the service, prayers are said at the war memorial for the fallen of all nations throughout the world.
This is also the same day as the Act of Remembrance which takes place at The Cenotaph, Whitehall in Central London.
Of course, the official day is 11th November every year....

Here is my own poem in tribute ...............

Remembrance Day

A soft grey day                                                     

on the cusp of winter chill.                                              

Fallen leaves, fragments underfoot -                                

crushed frail wings of Speckled Wood;                  

and shy moorhens dipping red shields

backpedal against the charging stream.                            

The glowing bonfire’s heaving heart

aims smoking tracers to the ashen sky.

Bitter drops of hawthorne’s vivid blood

flood the hedgerows; a heron waits -                     

and by the church scarlet poppies                                   

lie entrenched with pale crosses.                                     

From Hyde Park cannon boom

                                 fracturing the still air.
 

© Sue Burley

 Published in 'Reach Poetry',
November, 2015; issue 105

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                'The Fens', 6 Acre Meadow,

                                                                               near St John the Baptist, Old Malden