Spring and Rebirth

Renewal

Curled up in a corner of myself

Far above the tideline of the sea

Beyond the reach of human grasp and need

My kernel’s whole, sealed off and floating free.

I am renewed, each day the first of Spring

Life’s storms drawn back, I’ve reached the further shore

Inviolate and still, my centre held

I’m on dry land, and don’t want any more.

SC

Spring along the Wye - a Haiku 

Mating mallards splash 

Water vole scurries through reeds 

Is new promise here?

MW

Seasoning 

Bluebell is the early smell of summer, wild and soft, warmed out by sunlight that dapples the cathedral floor of a Chiltern beechwood, or let loose across open hillsides in Rannerdale.

Full summer comes savoury with the aroma of marjoram and thyme. I stir it up as I walk in chalkland meadows and relish the flavour of Mediterranean food.

The nose of cold as I walk out early to the cycle sheds on my way to morning lectures is quintessential autumn; or pungent silage, the smell that sometimes hangs over fields in the valley all day.

Winter is the invitation of Christmas spices mulled with orange and wine. Brave the cold outside to inhale winter honeysuckle – and look out for winter-active bumble bees which are also drawn to the fragrance.

And what of the scent of spring? In the depth of winter it arrived for me, boxed and sent from the Scillies. The cut narcissi flowers carried a touching message for life: Don’t expect them to last very long.

The moments to live are now. Don’t wait for spring!

AB

Spring on Q

Spring on Q like hope is eternal

There must be something maternal

Knowing the right time for optimism

That the bulbs and seeds will prism

Into a rainbow of colours so good

That they will multiply as they should.

Tiny seeds that grow into mighty trees

Renewable energy that humans sieze

To heat their homes as logs or chips

Renewable electricity is on everyone's lips

Series or parallel it goes on and on

Like the seasons that keep rolling on

The life line on my hand is long

I wish it could my life prolong

An ambition is to see 2095

By then I will be over 125

Never say die, it is the Dash

Twixt when you were born and then become Ash

Hope springs on Q

PS

St David's Day

Every year, on St David’s Day,        

I give my mother daffodils

from the greengrocer, tightly furled.

We tell each other,

“Hwyl fawr a Dydd Dewi Sant.’

And hope that along the verges,

The wild daffodils will have struggled

Through the frozen ground    

And pushed their heads through their green sleeves 

to greet us.  

This year, for the first time, mum’s   

not here, but back in the ice   

and snow of Canada. No chance  

daffodils will show their faces  

there, for St David.  

CT

Spring Woodland Painting

Lay a wash of clear, bright sky, 

Add a touch of hugging warmth.

Filigree trees splashed with fresh young green.

Busy beaks, with nests to build,

Acrobatic darts of a Brimstone or two.

Wood anemones and lesser celandines

As an explosion of light, reviving stars,

Mirroring a night sky on ochre ground

The woodland has been holding its breath

Releasing now in slow, contented sighs

To delight our eye and gladden our heart

With awakening cheer; promise and hope,

Embracing new beginnings.

Let us draw on its strength and persistence -

To do the same.

JJ

Spring

From the highest atmosphere

a flash of sunlight on a plane:

photons crash my rods and cones.

Giddy, I close my eyes to see

a light that dances mindfully.

Here’s a thrush’s eggshell found

on leaves and blossom on the ground.

And all about the vibrant air

swallows darting everywhere.

 JE

  

Writing from the Quaker Peace Garden

These poems resulted from 'Q' Writers visiting a local Quaker Burial Ground. 
In 1663 Quakers in High Wycombe took out a lease on a piece of land called Saffron Platt. This was used from that date onwards for many generations as their burial ground. The last burial there took place in 1913. In 1986 the ground was handed over to the the local district council and in 2015 money became available to re-develop the site as a Peace Garden to commemorate 100 years since WW1. Our writers spent a morning contemplating this area which is now surrounded by a car park.

In the Quaker Burial Ground 

This small green square is mute and yet speaks with a clear un-shaking voice 

Not one of those beneath my feet knew me, nor I them 

Yet they are the teachers and I the pupil 

They tell of lives lived three hundred years since 

Of courage to worship in a quiet new way 

Of cruelties endured and friendships shared 

Of living in the light and sometimes hiding in the dark 

When I stand and turn to home they walk beside me 

Can I find the light of which their clay filled mouths talk? 

Can I be a pattern worthy of their name? 

The Peace Garden 

It seems so right in soil nourished by pacifists’ bones, a peace garden grows 

When nightly violence fills our screens 

Bombs, explosives, guns and swords 

Terror, injury, death and destruction soak our eyes 

Where is that piece of God that rests in all of us? 

How deeply buried it must be in some men’s hearts 

How deep is it in mine? 

Where is that peace of God in all of us? 

Is this garden for rest and ease? 

Or for discomfort and calling me to action? 

MW

THOUGHTS IN A QUAKER BURIAL GARDEN

Theirs were but human hearts that beat like ours
but beat to a different rhythm of time.
Their hearts beat to the undershot splash
of the wheel in the stream
that powered the mill
that ground the corn
that the market devoured.
Their hearts beat to the dread of disease
from the pestilent rags
of the papermen’s trade
and the fear of the strangers
brought in from elsewhere to pulp the stuff;
the plague-ridden pulp, from which paper was pressed.
Their hearts beat as they brewed their beer
and tailored their clothes
and made their hats
and their pipes for tobacco
and baked their bread
and built with timber
and shaped the iron
that shod their horse
and created the tools to harvest the harvest
that decked out their stalls on market day.
Their hearts beat to the clatter of hooves
and the parson’s preaching of sin and damnation,
of grace and salvation.
And their hearts beat ‘gainst the heart-stopping mem’ries
of war by the stream that powered their peace,

The backdrop, for those who lie peacefully here,
was a turbulent one. And now, for them,
with the old order gone, their minds were rich
for new thoughts to take root.
From seedling to flower, at breakneck speed,
a harvest of fresh convictions would grow.
And into their fertile, seeking minds
the Quaker seed was sown.

KC

The Peace Garden

As the young man and his dog traverse
This urban ground, what does he know
Of unconsecrated Quakers
Lying dead beneath the grass?
Clipped municipal shrubs show
A solid, maybe reluctant, respect
Giant sycamore, allowed to grow,
Cast their shadows across the path.
What luck the railway track has missed it.
Though you hear the swish of trains
As they slow.
The bright cars gleam below.
The urge to build has been resisted.

Down the years, near Saffron Platt,
Some living Quakers have persisted
And now have planned a quiet garden
Where the others lie in peace.
They pray that here, a little heaven,
With butterflies and nightly bats,
Will stop mankind and help them wonder
Why we fight and lose our tempers.
Here the new plan’s soft meanders
Help reach out to reconcile
That of god within us all.

JE

The Garden

Welcome to you, friend, in the here and now,
Some time to pause, for yourself allow.
Look beyond down the hill and ponder the view,
Feel timeless nature severing hullabaloo.
Gentle gardens and trees that rustle,
Look up to the sky and escape the bustle.
Quieten your mind, Friend, and let it rest,
For in peace and tranquillity, you are blessed.
Now look to the past to people faded
This place for Quaker was special and sacred.
People like you with lives that unfold Leaving their mark with stories untold.
They were silently steadfast in times less than tolerant
Supporting each other to foster their confidence
Until they were granted freedom and release And created this garden to rest in peace.
Now look to the future with hope and with grace
There is goodness around you, so seek and embrace.

Silence and stillness will strengthen the soul;
Let this place nurture you as you stroll.

JJ