for John (Ted) Dexter
*
no cars on the road
all of the town sofa bound
food lulled and sleeping
…
walking home, a man
evensong’s slow gentle peace
on him like monks’ robes
…
old man and poet
meet in quiet communion
by the graveyard gate
…
souls of the same shade
in unspoken fellowship
watching the birds fly
…
on the bridge, silence
white blossom, silver water
Easter Sunday light
*
© Gail Foster 17th April 2017
for Sarah
*
The light is not a solemn thing, it shines
With merry glee and mirthful gentleness
Will not be held a hostage, in confines
Of darkened halls where little ones confess
The sins of fathers that they never chose
Nor be a slave to chapter, scripture, verse
Be boundaried, or fettered in its flows
It is the joy of blessing, not a curse
It isn’t how you said it was. You lied
I ran, and left your lies behind the door
And here I am, and oh, the light is wide
Mysterious, and infinite, and more
A wildly wilful, free, and feisty thing
I wear a ribbon in my hair, and sing
*
© Gail Foster 26th February 2017
…
This sonnet was written for my friend Sarah, who left the Plymouth Brethren. In accordance with the Brethren’s belief in the Doctrine of Separation, those who have left are no longer allowed contact with their friends or families. In recent years former members have developed the custom of writing their loved ones’ names on yellow ribbons as a symbol of love and remembrance.
Image © Ted da Yonga 2016 Quote © Gail Foster 2016
How the light fell on the Corn Exchange, Devizes, at 7am on Monday 21st March 2016
***
by Gail
On the deaths of Major John Cairns Bartholomew, of Wadworthshire,
and a much loved Devizes tree…
*
*
Beneath a grey and monumental sky
In wild confetti clouds that dance in air
The blossom falls, all trees and men will die
However good, or beautiful, or rare
For years beneath the branches of that tree
Have lovers kissed and lonely mourners waited
All men and trees shall die, he, thee, and me
By that same force destroyed and yet created
The clattering of horses’ hooves, the sound
Of yeoman passing, ghosts that haunt the ears
All trees and men be gone into the ground
Till from the light new word of life appears
In red Victorian brick and petal glow
Are strength and beauty blended for our eyes
Good men and trees in season come and go
Such knowledge is the glory of the wise
Drink with your eyes each bright delight you see
And savour every moment of creation
For man will pass, and wind will fell the tree
And wine will fall on coffins in libation
If blood still flows like sap, then drain your glass
Enjoy the fleeting sunbeam in your ale
All trees and men will die, for all things pass
All moonlight fade, and colours turn to pale
Let hops be gathered, make of sunshine, hay
Add rosebuds, and ferment a heady brew
For trees and men shall certain pass away
As dark of midnight shadows summer’s blue
And soon enough, last orders will be rung
Sad flags will flutter half way up the mast
And dark laments for men and trees be sung
And rest be found for dear old souls at last
Learn wisdom, child, from ale and wood and bone
Brew love in barrels down in cellars deep
And find it there when you return, alone
To watch the man in blossom rise from sleep
*
by Gail
The light is coming… and I wish you well
*
*
Behind the running, running man the land
Lies silent, fallow, haunted by the cry
Of one lone mourning rook who flies alone
Inscribing solemn circles in the sky
There is no time to take a backward look
Just running, running, running, running blind
He leaves the flowered garlands that she wove
With ribbons bright, with summer’s love, behind
He runs with only hope in empty hands
All faint of heart, with life blood running cold
The chill of winter earth beneath his feet
All water turned to ice in frozen fold
All out of breath with minutes yet to live
He runs, through elder grove and stand of yew
Runs, seeking for the ancient Solstice door
Described in tales the bards and ancients knew
‘Till suddenly he stumbles on a glade
All silent where no wild bird wheels or calls
And in the glade there stands a single stone
And on the ground a moon dark shadow falls
And there, within the shadow’s light he sees
That which before him other men have found
A stairway leading down in to the earth
A dark descending path in to the ground
No way but down now, this the only way
He gathers one last breath, and full of fear
Goes down the old and foot worn ancient steps
That lead towards the portal of the year
How dark the endless steps of winter’s stair
That shadow down, down to the Solstice door
To where, beneath the door a chink of light
Hints soft and bright across the cold stone floor
He sits upon the bottom step to rest
Reflect, and contemplate the year behind
And lo, she comes, bedecked in leaves and fruit
And dancing, dancing, through his weary mind
Forget me not, she sings; I am still here
I wait for you, for life to shift and stir
And through the keyhole and the chink there blows
A fragrant waft of birch and silver fir
Reviving, blessing, soft upon his face
The promise of new life upon her breath
Touched by her grace he weeps upon the step
For she has saved him with her love from death
Another year dies, another lives
He sits and waits; she watches from afar
And as he waits the light in darkness shifts
And creaks the ancient Solstice Door ajar…
*
by Gail
In which there is much bad language in The Vaults (the best little micro pub in town), and Mortimer Cheese makes an unfounded allegation about Santa…
*
*
Mortimer Cheese wasn’t easily pleased
And he didn’t like Christmas at all
At the pub where he went for his grub and a vent
He would sometimes just rant at the wall
Particularly riled by people who smiled
He would give them a piece of his mind
He just didn’t get to where he was today
By being in any way kind
“Happy Christmas” they said, to the back of his head
“I think not” he would say as he turned
“Are you taking the piss?” he would splutter and hiss
Spraying mist from the beer he had earned
“Don’t give me that, about Christmas, you twat
All that tinsel and plastic and light
Santa” he said, “is a paedo in red
And I’m wishing for cloud on the night
As for the star and the kings from afar
I’m for Dawkins and none of that tosh
Jesus!” he said, “You are well off your head
Bring on the shagging and nosh!”
Seven pints supped, he was just warming up
He had a few choice things to say
Some thought he joked with the words that he spoke
But most folk just melted away
One girl held a candle, despite all his scandal
They had once had a ‘thing’ in his car
In a zebra striped dress which she wore to impress
She watched him with lust from the bar
“Leave me off your list” he said, getting more pissed
“Not you love, I’ll come in your stocking
A quick in and out, that’s what Santa’s about”
And other things frankly more shocking
His blood pressure rose as the atmosphere froze
And his words chilled the air of The Vaults
It seemed a good crack to stay on the attack
So he started on everyone’s faults
The sad and the chubby, the hapless, the grubby
All punters were grist to his mill
“What’s wrong with you folk, can you not take a joke
You’re all bloody ugly or ill”
By quarter to nine he had well crossed a line
Malc the landlord said “Cheese Boy, you’re barred”
“More feckin’ drink” said the drunk man, “I think
That I’m better than you and well hard”
“No, you’ve had enough” said the landlord, “so tough
It’s time you went home to your bed
You’ve been nasty and loud, you’ve done Britain First proud
And you’ve told us we’re better off dead”
Mortimer grumbled, and stood up and stumbled
And pointed himself at the door
Knocking the bar so the big humbug jar
Fell off and smashed on the floor
“Humbugs for me” he said, grinning with glee
As he picked out a few from the glass
“I’m already sweet but these humbugs are neat”
So he necked three, and fell on his arse
“He looks a bit red” one kind punter said
“Take no notice” said someone, “he’s joking”
“Stop larking about and get the fuck out!
Oh bollocks, he’s actually choking”
“Call for the Doc!” “But he called me a cock”
“Well call for the nurse then!” “She’s pissed”
There was nobody there who had much of a care
There were only the folk he had dissed
A bloke at the bar, who’d been quiet so far
Who had hoped to escape any drama
Had listened to Cheese, with his bile and sleaze
And had pondered the workings of karma
Understated but cool, the bloke jumped off his stool
Someone whispered “A nice little mover”
He grabbed hold of Cheese and with confident ease
Did a swift nifty Heimlich’s Manoeuvre
A grunt and a shout and the humbug shot out
Made a ring like a bell on the bar
“I’m guessing that’s time then” our Mortimer said
“I’d best get me coat then, ta-ra”
…
As he swayed up the street he heard following feet
And a voice that was eager to please
The girl from the pub, who was stripey and sweet
“Bar Humbug” sneered Mortimer Cheese
*
by Gail
Stone and Tree in Harmony…
*
*
by Gail
*
by Gail
A Fairy Tale
*
Once upon a time there was a grand historical building, in the centre of a small but beautiful Wiltshire town, called the Assize Court. For many years the processes of law were carried out within the stern Bath stone walls of the court, and many folk were sentenced in the dock. Some walked under the Ionic pillars to freedom, some to death and some to endless captivity. All human drama was there. Tears were spilt, reputations were ruined and children were left fatherless. Justice was seen to be done. But then one day, as is the way of things, it became obsolete; the last sentence was delivered, and the doors were closed. It stood, slowly decaying, for year upon year; a strange symbol of dereliction in the beating heart of the town. And now, and then, good folk devoted much energy to finding new hope and purpose for the building. Nothing came to pass. The people were met by brick walls and stonewalling. The people gave up the fight. It crumbled. Years, and yet more years, passed. Good folk tried again. No joy. More brick walls and stone walling. It crumbled. Again, passionate people rallied, and tried to make sense of it. Again, brick walls and stonewalling. It crumbled. Until, one day, it had crumbled beyond all hope. At which point the land was used to build houses and offices. And yea, verily, as some had prophesied, someone made a large pot of gold. And lived happily ever after.
*
by Gail
gailfromdevizes 