Harbour Trip Sequence

JOHN R PARSONS

humming

in underpass echoes off

paintings of whales

below Castle Hill

one legged gulls

on mast tops]

harbour walk

I sit on polystyrene for warmth

beside nylon nets

beach front

fleet of toddlers gathers

in yellow oilskins

sunlight on a gull’s

wings slides invisibly

into sea

looking back at

Old Town above black hulks

atmosphere from beyond

sea front mini golf

toddler stares into a giant

skull’s plastic sockets

above beach walk

man on the cliff top

does hand stands

riding networks

of winter trees

gibbous moon heads

for the open

after the tree surgeon

I stack his

sawn off limbs

freak weather

a bare cherry

in full blossom

one gold herringbone

in clear blue evening sky

wind shreds the lake

silent fox

as I exit the park

I catch an eye glint

owning the whole

evening sky, half a moon

and Neptune

on the old TV

ariel two black and white

magpies change sides

In Guestling Wood

JOHN R PARSONS

how many times this smuggled self

has struck its shadowed way

past coppices of dark chestnuts

where slender stems of hazels sway

or scattered solitary oaks

who’s bark I touch with reverence

and wordless a prayer

the path curves down into my song

or thins lost into my whistled note

words repeat or reinvent themselves

as within each robin’s ruffled throat

when seeming to run up rustling

sheaths of wind dried leaves

while piping clearly into

winter’s rhythmic brittle throat

each crossed road here holds

her memory of love and print

of presence to linger in my heart

a place where seeds I’ve cast

lie dormant mysteries to trigger

tomorrow’s spring and winter’s part

for a stranger’s song of wonder

and reminiscence, once fallen

from my palm to you my love

those petals float and flush

as seasons hold your passing joy

that nothing known can crush

each glowing bulb and spreading

bed, each crown of bright green leaf

each rhapsody of laughter fresh like

your warming smile stretched beneath

Remain

CHRISTINE BERGER

By the sea

waves of silly thoughts come ashore

as dead fishes keep wuthering high

clouds of remembrance

a time here alone

the silver moon shining

holy

before J. died

and so silly thoughts

that the sea is a grave and for free

in waves go by.

JOHN R PARSONS

Old Roar Ghyll
its ancient slabs still shed
creation’s trickle

steep timber steps
rise and fall between glades
on the treacherous path

clinging to vertical sides
old oaks convey networks
of ivy into sky

how cleverly saplings
chafe and warble fake
human voices

pool side ferns
quiver above ripples
of pond skaters

fallen trees bridge
moss creased strata, bound
by sinews of root

well predating mankind
the Ghyll now holds
their broken furniture

By John R Parsons

letters
from people that I’ve never met
tucked in books, I carry their contents
to bed with me, having found them
on shelves in a bookcase where the corridor
bends and where I often pause on my way
at night, reluctant to turn in, names so
familiar now that I feel we’ve met, but
can fit no faces to, maybe we will meet
up in a dream, do they mysteriously hold
my name in some familiar corner of their
world, are we of the same age? Do we think
about similar things governing skylines or
creating strange noises in walls or hedgerows?
Do we see the same significance in the shapes
of stones or the twisted limbs of trees, or
attach an importance to the meanings of
certain arrangements of words, thoughts
and ideas? Do they get the same joy while
watching dawn sun rise behind a patch of
oaks to spread shimmering light through
its leaves, or even watching the translucent
full moon float over their ragged outlines,
or enjoy flocks of sparrows bathing below,
with lookouts dodging in and out of a hedge?
Bed covers now pulled up under the chin
I close my eyes to meet them in dreams,
where neither of us will recognise each other,
or even consider it worth asking, never
considering ordinary reality exists when there.

My ship’s
wake flows back to that moment
when anchor, first pulled with so little effort
lay there on the deck waiting until some
mooring was acknowledged as safe and
the relative skill had been acquired by that
writhing naked manikin to launch it
through gently heaving waves lapping
shallow shores snaking across dunes
of marram, yet am I those white
horses signifying the approach of flood tides,
the monsoons and tsunamis, all that froth
and spout, am I the reef and lagoon, the
fiord and inlet, the archipelago and
whirlpool, all jarring and flowing back
behind, the wake focussed on this point
of release, heading for that disembodied
line of sky and water, am I export, freight
or ferry, firmly moored against some final
jetty waiting that instant only launch will tell.