Poem: The Garth

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The accolades like garlands
all around you,
each flower of the palette
in your soul

I saw suns glint in violet eyes,
such rare colour,
your rose petal smiles
on dew laden sward

You drew me pastel people,
tore them to pieces,
casting high like confetti
in a lavender breeze

Your delicate hand would
demand I take it,
frog march me around
your patchwork garth

We’d sit in white stillness
at Indian summer’s end,
our toes dangling in pools
of murky green

And when the grey winds came
soughing demons around us,
you closed that rickety gate
toward Michaelmastide.

copyright Francis Barker 2019

Photographs: Burghley House Sculpture Garden, Lincolnshire, England.

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copyright Leofwine Tanner 2019

Poem: Anonymous Lines

Downstairs any morning;
sunlight and smoke
in slow swirling clouds.
The cat wanders in,
cries and wanders out,
flopping down the step
toward shrill sparrow sounds.

An open passage door
through which I follow
into a past, or no time at all.
Gooseberries hairy in the mouth,
that sour shock at the crunch.
Raspberries sweet on the tongue;
peas plucked from the pod,

sitting between rows of green.
His shadow blots out the sun,
a tall silhouette, cap pushed back
as a match is struck.
I follow to runner beans
and strawberry rows,
where the cat rolls over and over.

He is distant now, never hurried,
where it all opens up,
when I cling to his leg
looking down on the dyke
where the moorhen struts.
Out onto prairie fields,
anonymous lines of roads

and pylons. A relentless horizon.

*If you would like personal astrology report, please contact me at: leoftanner@gmail.com for details.

World War 2 Memorial, Ayscoughfee Hall

Recently a new memorial to Spalding’s WWII dead was unveiled.

It is a masterful, yet understated and fitting tribute to those who gave their lives in the most devastating conflict yet known to mankind.

It is also a fine complement to Edwin Lutyens’ earlier, more classically styled WW1 memorial, just a few yards away.

Topiary at Ayscoughfee Hall, Spalding

The art of topiary has been practised at Ayscoughfee Hall, Spalding, Lincolnshire, for many decades.

One of the joys of a walk around Ayscoughfee Hall grounds is to witness the topiary, done in a fairly unique, almost avant-garde fashion.

Or is it prehistoric?

The accolades like garlands all around you, each flower of the palette in your soul

I saw suns glint in violet eyes, such rare colour, your rose petal smiles on dew laden sward

You drew me pastel people, tore them to pieces, casting high like confetti in a lavender breeze

Your delicate hand would demand I take it, frog march me around your patchwork garth

We’d sit in white stillness at Indian summer’s end, our toes dangling in pools of murky green

And when the grey winds came soughing demons around us, you closed that rickety gate toward Michaelmastide.

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Downstairs any morning; sunlight and smoke in slow swirling clouds. The cat wanders in, cries and wanders out, flopping down the step toward shrill sparrow sounds.

An open passage door through which I follow into a past, or no time at all. Gooseberries hairy in the mouth, that sour shock at the crunch. Raspberries sweet on the tongue; peas plucked from the pod,

sitting between rows of green. His shadow blots out the sun, a tall silhouette, cap pushed back as a match is struck. I follow to runner beans and strawberry rows, where the cat rolls over and over.

He is distant now, never hurried, where it all opens up, when I cling to his leg looking down on the dyke where the moorhen struts. Out onto prairie fields, anonymous lines of roads

and pylons. A relentless horizon.

Rate this:

Share this:

Recently a new memorial to Spalding’s WWII dead was unveiled.

Rate this:

Share this:

The art of topiary has been practised at Ayscoughfee Hall, Spalding, Lincolnshire, for many decades.

Rate this:

Share this:

The accolades like garlands
all around you,
each flower of the palette
in your soul

I saw suns glint in violet eyes,
such rare colour,
your rose petal smiles
on dew laden sward

You drew me pastel people,
tore them to pieces,
casting high like confetti
in a lavender breeze

Your delicate hand would
demand I take it,
frog march me around
your patchwork garth

We’d sit in white stillness
at Indian summer’s end,
our toes dangling in pools
of murky green

And when the grey winds came
soughing demons around us,
you closed that rickety gate
toward Michaelmastide.

Downstairs any morning;
sunlight and smoke
in slow swirling clouds.
The cat wanders in,
cries and wanders out,
flopping down the step
toward shrill sparrow sounds.

An open passage door
through which I follow
into a past, or no time at all.
Gooseberries hairy in the mouth,
that sour shock at the crunch.
Raspberries sweet on the tongue;
peas plucked from the pod,

sitting between rows of green.
His shadow blots out the sun,
a tall silhouette, cap pushed back
as a match is struck.
I follow to runner beans
and strawberry rows,
where the cat rolls over and over.

He is distant now, never hurried,
where it all opens up,
when I cling to his leg
looking down on the dyke
where the moorhen struts.
Out onto prairie fields,
anonymous lines of roads