As December is fast approaching, I just thought I would share these autumn themed pictures with you from a weekend trip to Odense. I didn’t take very many photos because the weather/lighting wasn’t too great, but I think it captures the Danish countryside vibe (mind you…Odense is still a city) – tranquil canals, forest walks, […]
A peaceful walk in Odense — Life in Copenhagen
Strange smells in the woods
Some unsuspected footprints
Twigs crack under foot
Copyright Francis Barker 2020
The shaman in me
Collecting wood for the fire
Fall’s communion
Copyright Francis Barker 2020
Hurricane’s Grave
A copse can be an intimate
friend. Most days he roamed there, always
finding something to love, a life of
reasonable expectation.
Late winter was a favourite time; tree tops
took on reddish hues and
there were further signs other
than snowdrops
and blue tits’ brighter songs, of the
burgeoning spring
Today was different. Large boots
had been this way,
their wearer, like
a stump line of grey, stood
barely seen by an old fence, through straight
saplings in sunlight.
He approached the figure, which seemed
to dissipate like mist in the sun, something
he’d mistaken for form
and life
But it was more than
a notion that had led him there. The fence
overlooked a rolling field, familiar lumps
and bumps of pasture unchanged
for decades,
where lords in their demesnes might
still rule for all he knew.
He leant on the fence, it
gave way in his hand. A piece of torn
grey cloth freed from a nail, flopped to
the damp ground.
He held it,
felt its old thick weave— like a uniform
He pondered the scene in front
of him, gave space to wartime tales,
the remembered lumps and
bumps which might easily hide a
hurricane’s grave
image and poem © copyright david f. barker 2012
* The Hurricane here, is a British WWII fighter plane
Trinity
Scent of sweet woodsmoke
Beauty in indignation
Fresh ascetic breeze
Haiku and image © copyright df barker
Until the End of the World
He walked with me
some of the way
Through the dark woods
he became a bright torch
to illuminate overgrown paths
where leaves of oak and ash
caressed my face like friends
On the high moorland
he was the warm fleece
which I wrapped around myself
to shelter from the cold and rain
And when we sat down
in the clearing by a stream
he produced this feast of food
which I shared with a host of birds
and others sitting tamely at my feet
But when he stood up to go
his skin turned a deathly white
I watched helpless
while he vanished silently
into a bank of willow and alder
swallowed by the rush
of the now turbulent stream
The animals all scampered away
to peer at me from somewhere
unseen in the shadows
I began to trudge home
shivering on the high moorland
drenched to the skin
with only hardy sheep for company
who eyed me warily
when I staggered by
Once back in the dark woods
I soon became lost
the stinging branches whipping me
and thorns piercing my flesh
while groping my way through
In my bag I found the old torch
with its flickering light
I hit it against a tree
trying to make it work –
my only recourse
in such a state of loss
*dedicated to all those who have found faith
© copyright David Francis Barker 2011
*image is a digital manipulation an original
