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
copyright Francis Barker 2019
It was the best time
Endless summers before school
just mum, cat and me
Our art of simply being
beat the toil of becoming
copyright Francis Barker 2019
Summer is not far away, fickle though it may be in England’s northerly reaches.
To us as children the good days were glorious; down at the beach the sun was our friend, the sea and sand our playmates through the days which would last forever. Eternity was within our reach – then.
In reality nothing much has changed, only our perception of reality.
paintings by Francis Barker
Where I grew up, which was once part of the Danelaw, we called it ‘keck’, a common name for cow parsley; some call it wild chervil, or even Queen Anne’s Lace. Well, it sounds like an ancient Norse word, but it could equally be good old Old English. Either way, it is characteristic of this time of year, as spring turns into summer.
words and pictures ©copyright rp 2016
Summer doesn’t officially begin until June 1, or June 21 with the Summer Solstice, according to some.
But a few warm days in early May lulls you into that typical false sense of security, leaves you thinking summer may have come early.
Then, of course, the heavens opened and May returned to its usual, not entirely unexpected mixed bag of meteorological mayhem.
And that’s just it, the downpour reminded me of many previous Mays, and by all accounts the temperatures will be almost back down to single figures by the weekend. This is a normal May.
That’s why I said ‘Au Revoir’ at the start. So, like the French might optimistically put it, until we meet again, dear summer…
© copyright words and images rp
Spring finally comes, like your
warm breath on my
desiccate skin. So then
sing to me of careless summers,
your smile, where
© copyright David F. Barker 2013
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Summer was once ices poles and living
on bikes; we were free like swifts
screaming circles in the air. Greens
were for football and teams twenty a side,
roads for playing cricket, where cars
were stalling aberrations. We lay
on lawns watching clouds, minds unfettered
in those zenith blues; guilt
and care belonged to
some other world and school
might well have been
beyond the moon.
Only later came guitars with boys’ awakenings;
sunbathing in the yard, or the shock
of full moons rising late in the day. We really
thought we had credence, like southern
Skynyrd boys, singing in that
sultry heat with school coming at us
like banks of cloud, the football season
begun and cricket nearing its end,
watching shadows gathering
where the sun once shone
poem © copyright David F. Barker 2012