The Estcourt Fountain, Devizes Market Place, this afternoon
*
by Gail
The Fountain
Granny’s Easter Buns
*
Grandad says that Easter isn’t funny
You won’t find him at parties
Dressed up as the Easter bunny
He’ll not be scoffing chocolate eggs
Or anything like that
He’ll be putting on his Sunday best
And dusting off his hat
For Grandad is an Anglican
Of serious intent
Does bible study when he can
And gave up cake for Lent
He says that Jesus died for me
And I’d best not forget it
But seeing as I’m only three
I’m sorry, I don’t get it
My Granny, now my Granny, mind
She has a different view
She leaves me little eggs to find
In places like my shoe
The smell of Granny’s hot cross buns
Is paradise and bliss
She makes me little special ones
Topped with a tiny kiss
Granny says God loves me
As she makes my Easter bonnet
With a smile as she carefully
Sews flowers and bees upon it
Let Grandad do religious stuff
The crucifixion thing
I’m only really old enough
For Granny, and the Spring
…
Grandad’s back from church now
Saying “Jesus rose for you”
“Well, bless us all” my Granny says
“The buns are risen too”
*
by Gail
Strange Simony
For Good Friday
Another man
Another plan
Hung on a
Godforsaken tree
One dread kiss
And then
Was this
Eternal calumny
How bitter
Seems the glitter
Of dark silver
Simony
No shining glory
In this story
Just shame
And death
For all to see
In the daylight
And with hindsight
Could not there
Light and mercy be
For it was writ
This would be it
That all these things
Would come to be
The portrayal
Of his betrayal
Haunts our own
Humanity
No kudos
For poor Judas
Only lonely
Ignominy
by Gail
Serious Light Exhibition
How the Light Falls
How the light fell on the Corn Exchange, Devizes, at 7am on Monday 21st March 2016
***
by Gail
She Comes
A rhyme written for the Spring Equinox
and the Gorsedd of the Bards
at Avebury, Wiltshire
*
For all the night she trod the furrowed earth
As she has walked all winter in her wake
In seeking for the child she brought to birth
The maiden bride whom Hades chose to take
…
The gibbous moon is waxing to the bright
And shedding shifting shadows on the lands
One single moonbeam spills down through the night
Upon the rutted earth on which she stands
…
Made heavy by the weight of mother’s tears
The ground beneath her feet begins to yield
The imprint of a child’s foot appears
Emerging from the darkness of the field
…
The dawn is tinting grey the silken skies
The lifting mist moves gulls to take the air
She swears she hears these words within their cries
She comes, she comes, she comes, is nearly there…
…
Around the hill of Silbury swirl the springs
From many sources meeting there as one
Upon the fence a bardic blackbird sings
His songs of seasons ended and begun
…
The heron stands in wait down by the brook
The willows’ leaves weave rills upon the stream
The cormorant is fishing for the rook
Whose shadow shapes a fish from daybreak’s gleam
…
From alder trees drip drops of ancient dew
Like shining crystals, in to waters deep
The grey of morn becomes a brighter blue
New lambs are woken from the dark womb’s sleep
…
A muffled drumbeat pounds within her bones
Thrills through her feet and trembles in her chest
Draws from four corners people of the stones
To stand and lay the winter to his rest
…
Can it be so, she thinks, that she will come
And willingly escape the thrall of Hades
Be called by this fast beating of the drum
To dance among the wild lords-and-ladies
…
The drum, the drum, the Druid in the East
The daylight shattering the glass of night
Behold the mead and cake that form the feast
Behold the glorious blessing of the light
…
The blazing gorse flames yellow on the hill
Bright shafts of sun surround the Druid’s head
She comes, she comes, my daughter liveth still
Released at last from fathoms of the dead
…
Her eyes are purple crocuses; her hair
Is woven through with wood anemones
She shocks the eyes, her presence is so rare
And strong, as hyacinths upon the breeze
…
She wears the sun a-shimmer on her dress
In folds of drops of snow and celandines
And, as befits she with the power to bless
Comes riding on a stag of seven tines
…
She speaks unto the awed and silent crowd
“I come” she says “I bring the fire of life
I come to cast my seeds on fields ploughed
To quell your hunger and relieve your strife
…
I bring you daylight from the depths of hell
Where I with Hades am forever wed
Of Christ and Dionysus I shall tell
In sacred stories of the risen dead”
…
The crowd are stunned to silence, robbed of breath
She came, she came, brought winter to his knees
Defied the dreadful tide of dark and death
To bless the ground with shoots, and trees with leaves
…
The ancient Druid offers up the cup
The wine of her libations there to sip
He bows his head, as down she stoops to sup
And touch the cup upon her rosy lip
…
And with this act the sunlight floods the sky
The spell is broken by the touch of earth
And Demeter runs forward with a cry
To hold the maiden that she brought to birth
…
The seasons come, the seasons go, and all
Shall rise and fall and fade and reappear
And Spring shall once more answer to the call
Of Hades at the dying of the year
…
But here, by mother love and heat of day
Persephone is made a child again
To run upon the hills; to dance and play
And plant her flowers in the world of men
*
© Gail Foster 2016
The Angel of the North
*
Another bloody southerner
Shedding tears at my steely feet
I stand in judgement over you
See me and weep
…
Tell the angels of the south
To bless you with their feathered sympathy
I have no eyes to cry for you
Nor close in sleep
…
This is my body, glorious
Within my breast a thousand hammers beat
I cast a shadow over you
See me and weep
*
by Gail
Well, Well, Welby
Well, well, Welby
Beg your pardon
He’s got three Poles
At the bottom of his garden*
And joining in with daily prayers
Some Syrians beneath the stairs
Asylum seekers in his shed
And Communists
Beneath his bed
He’s just doing what he can
To pander to the ‘common’ man
To separate the issues, see
Of race and the economy
With good intent to bridge the gap
‘Twixt logic and the racist cr*p
For Welby is a diplomat
Just in case, and just like that
It’s not that we’re a racist state
Good luck with that one, Welby, mate
Imagine pubs across the land
The dodgy banter, beer in hand
That Archbishop got it right
We’re all white mate, we’re all white
Share our wealth with all the planet?
Outrageous! (outraged Bob from Thanet)
But what of all the fish and bread
With which five thousand mouths were fed
Would Jesus Christ have found it hard
To put up Poles in his back yard?
by Gail
* A play on the words of an English joke, “Well, well, well, three holes in the garden!”
Scatter Me
Scatter me there where the winds are sweet
To the blue of the sky and the sun’s bright heat
On Oliver’s Camp where the dragon lines meet
Scatter me there on the hill
Scatter me there where the waters flow
Where the weeping mourners come and go
Down by The Wharf where the ducklings grow
Scatter me there on the bridge
Scatter me there where the earth sees all
When the pond is lit by a moonbeam’s fall
Where the children play and the drunkards brawl
Scatter me there on the green
Scatter me there where the griffons play
Where the waters pour the hours away
In the pool of the fountain on Market Day
Scatter me there in the stream
Scatter me there with the silent dead
Where ages of souls have been buried and wed
And the angels cavort among coffins of lead
Scatter me there by the church
Scatter me there where the townsfolk cried
And strew flowers on the steps when Diana died
On the stair where ’tis said that Ruth Pierce lied
Scatter me there on the cross
Scatter me here and leave me be
On every street, under every tree
Until I am dust and memory
Scatter me here where I’m free
by Gail
Rosemary’s Funeral
Mother’s Day is an emotional time, especially for folk who no longer have their Mums around. My mother is long gone, bless her. She died at this time of year, in 1990. I wrote this last year for Mother’s Day, and the coming of Spring. It’s actually a celebration of her so no need for tears.
*
My mother’s coffin on the bier, up the cobbled steps to St. Mary’s church. My babe folded warm to my breast. Green turf on the hill and the early cry of lambs upon the Plain. Warm breath, warm wind, the knell of an ancient bell, solemn steps up to the sacred temple, dedicated to His mother, The Mother, all mothers, my mother.
For Spring is a dying in itself. My child stirs. She waited for him before her passing. I pressed him to her breast as she lay dying, her window open, bright gifted daffodils a-stirring on the sill. I took a photograph and have it still. My mother, blessed in her helplessness, still fierce in her humility, with a twinkle in her eye, a warm smile and her only grandchild in her arms.
Funeral over and back in the light my son and I await new life.
*
by Gail
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