Nature poems
Wales.
These mountains don’t swoop down to the sea
like kamikaze seagulls. They tumble and fall
splash against boulders in the raw wind, send
spray bouncing and spitting onto the beach.
Oyster-catchers balance on rocks, wait patiently
for a change of tide, a shell opening. Mackerel
unaware of the waiting hooks, bite bait that beckons
their silver fins a flash of light squirming
on the end of a line. The sea, grey, even in summer,
frowns like an old man with white whiskers
sparkling pebbles with his tears. And all the time
the boats rock in his arms, and the sun wears
clouds for shades. I capture this impression,
pastel in haste the silver shine on ancient granite
before the old man can change his mind
and swallow the sun.
Sally James
Written on National Poetry day October 4th 2007
A new day dawns
The grey dawn whispers to me
“Go back to sleep, your dreams
will have more colour than this day.”
“But I see a ribbon of pink
among your wisps of clouds.” I reply.
“I see summer flowers still blooming
a pine tree pointing upwards forever green
trails of an aeroplane comb your hair
changing your curls into waves.”
“Ah,” she whispers back “You only look east,
look west and you will see how grey I am
smell the dampness in my air and listen
there are no birds singing.”
Sally James
Afternoon tea (rs)
It is early afternoon, the sun smiles
and mocks the dawn’s mutterings.
The day has dried like a clean sheet
blown dry in autumn’s glow.
Still the birds are silent but my dogs
lounge in the midday warmth.
Slowly brightness is filling
the room where I write.
Words flow instead of rain,
make my eyes seep into shadows
and my cheeks wet.
Sally James
Evening
My cheeks are dry now the sun
is sinking westwards.
My eyes have cast their shadow
on the old bruise of sunset.
Planes still scratch the pale blue sky
their vapour trails criss crossing
bleed into a lather of clouds.
Now birds chirp as the day shortens
fly from the dull grey of a slate roof.
There are echoes of stars
in this early twilight,
the rustle of dead leaves along
cobbled paths, and on the slope
of the hill one black sheep
grazes among the white
as day and night begin to mingle.
Sally James
Night
This night is a black curtain
so strong not even stars can pierce
the coarse fabric of sky
and from the half faced moon
not even a flicker can be seen.
There is mist hovering on bare
branches, clammy twigs
are dead men’s fingers
groping in the hedgerows.
There is a dampness in the air
as if the sweat of the day’s sun
had opened every pore of soil.
Night creatures will scurry
in the wasteland of my sleep
but it has been a good poetry day
and angels will lighten the darkness
where no stars shine.
Sally James
Wales.
These mountains don’t swoop down to the sea
like kamikaze seagulls. They tumble and fall
splash against boulders in the raw wind, send
spray bouncing and spitting onto the beach.
Oyster-catchers balance on rocks, wait patiently
for a change of tide, a shell opening. Mackerel
unaware of the waiting hooks, bite bait that beckons
their silver fins a flash of light squirming
on the end of a line. The sea, grey, even in summer,
frowns like an old man with white whiskers
sparkling pebbles with his tears. And all the time
the boats rock in his arms, and the sun wears
clouds for shades. I capture this impression,
pastel in haste the silver shine on ancient granite
before the old man can change his mind
and swallow the sun.
Sally James
Written on National Poetry day October 4th 2007
A new day dawns
The grey dawn whispers to me
“Go back to sleep, your dreams
will have more colour than this day.”
“But I see a ribbon of pink
among your wisps of clouds.” I reply.
“I see summer flowers still blooming
a pine tree pointing upwards forever green
trails of an aeroplane comb your hair
changing your curls into waves.”
“Ah,” she whispers back “You only look east,
look west and you will see how grey I am
smell the dampness in my air and listen
there are no birds singing.”
Sally James
Afternoon tea (rs)
It is early afternoon, the sun smiles
and mocks the dawn’s mutterings.
The day has dried like a clean sheet
blown dry in autumn’s glow.
Still the birds are silent but my dogs
lounge in the midday warmth.
Slowly brightness is filling
the room where I write.
Words flow instead of rain,
make my eyes seep into shadows
and my cheeks wet.
Sally James
Evening
My cheeks are dry now the sun
is sinking westwards.
My eyes have cast their shadow
on the old bruise of sunset.
Planes still scratch the pale blue sky
their vapour trails criss crossing
bleed into a lather of clouds.
Now birds chirp as the day shortens
fly from the dull grey of a slate roof.
There are echoes of stars
in this early twilight,
the rustle of dead leaves along
cobbled paths, and on the slope
of the hill one black sheep
grazes among the white
as day and night begin to mingle.
Sally James
Night
This night is a black curtain
so strong not even stars can pierce
the coarse fabric of sky
and from the half faced moon
not even a flicker can be seen.
There is mist hovering on bare
branches, clammy twigs
are dead men’s fingers
groping in the hedgerows.
There is a dampness in the air
as if the sweat of the day’s sun
had opened every pore of soil.
Night creatures will scurry
in the wasteland of my sleep
but it has been a good poetry day
and angels will lighten the darkness
where no stars shine.
Sally James