Firing up Autumn

Reflect

      on these flowers…

            those colours…

clashing, unco-ordinated,
sky blue with burnt orange
lemon against scarlet.

Yet here, reclining by the garden shed

michaelmas daisies drowse and fall

where chinese lanterns’ fiery brilliance

weave through the smouldering fuschias

exulting in their own exuberance…         

while in the dusk, the evening primrose

glows pale in the half-light, illuminates

the burning beds of early Autumn,

and nearby a red admiral,

          the glittering remnant of dying summer.

 

© Sue Burley

September2018 

 

Returning from Buxton

You set me down in the lane, not far,

just half-a-mile from the five-barred gate,

so weary from the tourist trail round

the pump room and pavilion gardens.

I stand entranced by the buttercup fields,

fat lambs tugging at their wary mothers,

and the slope pushing up to dense woods,

mystical and shadowed in bluish haze.

You know I need this solitude –

to admire the pair of sleek swallows

refining their high wire act and hear

pheasants rasp from fragrant hedgerows.   

Tempting to linger; but there you are

at the door waiting, and the path back

threads between high, hay-scented meadows.

                             Nearby, cars grumble over cattle grids.

© Sue Burley Rev. April 2015

(Published in Summer 2015 ed of  "The Dawntreader"

and "Old Malden News," June 2017.)

A Spring Garden

Impatient for summer

her bare toes curl, settle

into soft moss; she savours

sweet violets, but dreams of lilac.

Catching her eye a pale brimstone

lemon yellow, sails on waves of air.

Snow blossom unlocks a fragrance

with the promise of summer's plenty.

Nearby. the willow's green mist quivers.

A sharp breeze cools the wavering sun.

She shuts the garden shed, breathes in

the freshness of cut grass and shivers.

Sue Burley

'A Spring Garden', was published in the Spring Issue

of "The Dawntreader" 2017

My grandchildren have updated the Christmas 2016 Mural, to become the "EASTER DAY Mural"
 or the Murial as we call it!!


There was much fun creating this!!

Before Christmas, I encouraged two of my grandchildren to paint a Nativity scene on the hall wall.

This is what they came up with................

 

 



 I've not regretted it, as it turned out to be a great project.  And sometime in the Spring, the hall and landing will be completely redecorated!!!

I found this gem while reading the daily paper. . . . . . . . .

At present my life is a bit upside down, and this struck a chord and made me think:
It is a parable as told to a child by his grandfather.

Grandfather:
There are two wolves inside us who are always at war with each other.

The good wolf represents kindness, goodness and love.
The bad wolf represents greed, hatred and fear.

The boy thinks for a second and says,  "Grandfather, which one wins?"
The Grandfather quietly replies:           " The one you feed".


(As told by Sarfraz Manzoor - journalist)
                                                              

Summer's End

There is the sun, pale but slowly lifting

through smoky shreds of tangled cloud,

and overhead the moon becalmed and fading.

Such tender days give no sign of easing,
though captive leaves sigh for the clench of frost
and fumbling bees are somnolent and loitering.

Beneath my feet, the luscious grass still springing

near scarlet hips already ripe, yet
summer’s breeze is warm and softly lingering.

In truth there has to be an ending,

but turning leaves drift one by one –
so calm the fall; so strong the sap still rising.


Published in 'The Dawntreader', Summer 2016

  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

 

... we are off to Swanage, Dorset on Saturday, and as I haven't  managed to write anything new, here are a couple of my photos of  'Woody Nightshade', which kindly grows over my trellis by the potting bench...

 

This is a beautiful  climber, but beware, the berries are poisonous, and can cause sickness!!

...  We have recently been blessed by a second grandson, a welcome addition to our family.  He is now six weeks old and the first child for my son and his wife. 

...  It made me think of the poem I wrote when our first granchild was born.  She is now 10 years old! How time flies ..........

Hungry Baby

         (for Rose)

I pick the baby

from her mother’s arms,

her peachy cheek

colliding with mine.

Milk rimmed, her puckered mouth

still fiercely sucks

rooted to my neck.

Slate grey eyes open

in puzzlement; fists worry.

Her head bumps my shoulder

like soft fruit falling

to earth, face crumpling

in berry-red rage.

© Sue Burley

2004
Revised 2010

 

The Ribwort Plantain

 

(Nonsuch Park, Summer 2015)

Unassuming, most lowly of plants

edged out by the dazzle of buttercups,

the startling white of campion.

A survivor, not showy but strong,

a  stayer pushing up drab flowers        

from a rosette of speared leaves.

Accordingly, drives down tough roots,    

colonising field margins, hemming

path edges, mingling in meadows.

So, here it is - rashly consorting

with silken poppies, showy orchids,

the dancing grasses, red clover -
 

but not to be outdone, unwraps
an ethereal halo, a fragile wreath
of creamy anthers  -  its surprise package.


Sue Burley
2015

    

.............. Now that it is nearing mid-summer, and the wild flowers are luxuriant and colourful, the insects are out in abundance.
One of my favourites is the Hover Fly, which true to its name hangs above any plant. And even when reading in the garden, often can be seen from the corner of ones eye, darting one way then the other.


The Hover Fly

Only when the sun shines

the hover fly, tiger striped

                                        waits.

Then, friendly, in your face,

                                         homes in

quietly hums and hangs

in mid-air
                                         static,

except for the glimmer of wings.

Without due warning freefalls

and plummets

on an invisible current

                                          of air.

Crashlands on the meadowsweet
                                           to feed.


Sue Burley

'The Hover Fly', is published in the Summer 2015
issue of 'The Dawntreader' poetry  magazine.

...... Whilst we are lingering at the start of May waiting for warm summer days, here is a poem I wrote in Croyde, North Devon.  The surfy sea, the dunes and the beautiful, bracing cliff walks - all ingrained in my memory.

It transports me back to family holidays and what happened in the tiny garden of our chalet one evening.......

Prey

Pale moth wings flicker on the lamp.

Outside the blackbirds chink danger –

their distress so great, I at last step

into the warm smother of dusk.

It is his legs I glimpse first,

gleaming yellow in the half-light.

My eye holds his of glinting jet;

feathers fringe a sickled beak.

I do not know who is most afraid,

yet it is me who backs away -

and the stand-off is broken

as he takes flight, wings whispering,

talons gripping the lifeless prey,

ashy feathers floating in his wake.


Sue Burley
Published in  "Reach Poetry ", May 2017


 

  

...................this is our new Crab Apple tree flowering beautifully in its first Spring!  It was planted to fill a huge gap in our neighbour's garden, when they had to take down an old Twisted Willow.

 

Gorgeous!

 

And as an added bonus, the leaves will turn a stunning red-gold in the  autumn when the fruit will ripen and feed the birds in winter.  (photos by Graham)



 

 

 

                                                                                
                                                            Primroses in a Kentish hedgerow, photo by Cassy