The land of a thousand sylphs

This poem was inspired by the clouds of butterflies that danced about us on a recent hike in Wiltshire. It felt like we were blessed to be amongst them.

The land of a thousand sylphs

We walked in the land of a thousand sylphs

Down pathways forged as old as time

Their wings spread widely, signalling us

To follow them and free our minds

A thousand faeries, how they leapt

And twisted in their patterned suits

We toiled hard to keep apace

Entranced by a thousand magic flutes

They’d beckon us then flit ahead

Pied Pipers in their winged cloaks

Twirling, dancing about our heads

Alluring, beguiling faerie folk

As we to the clearing came

Took step upon light, open fields

Our winged chaperones there ceased

And back into the forest peeled

But not before one final waltz

And kiss bestowed upon our heads

Their duty to us over, having

Safely through the forest lead.

Never will we forget the day

A thousand sprites so merrily

Accompanied us along the path

Blessing us and our journey

The hike

This is the first part of a longer poem that I am working on but it’s not quite perfect yet. I hope you like it.

The hike

The silence is pure, golden

Looking around, I am

the only human being in existence

and I can see for miles.

The grasses sway, gently hushed.

Not even the wind makes a sound

but it is moving all about me

gently whipping then kissing my skin.

An exhililiarating aloneness

to be savoured even by the likes of me

who hates feelings of loneliness

who struggles to be alone.

Above my head, 7 kites

circling magestically

A flightcore eyeing the ground for prey

Riding the thermals, wings outstretched

gliding, then angling tails to change direction

Occasionally swooping to bully

or push one another

protecting their airspace,

driving off competitors.

Whole life crisis

I walked a thousand miles
to prove that I was able
I did it to help others
but mainly to avoid the label
of middle-aged dull woman
too beige and comfortable.


I brought myself a T-shirt
that’s a tad in your face
Celebrating women
you can’t describe as chaste
Just levelling the field
I think it’s fucking ace.


I went and got my haircut
It’s funky and distinct
styled for people in their twenties
with piercings and some ink
Maybe not so much for those
aged upwards of forty-six



I wrote a tetchy poem
I do from time to time
Instead of venting at others
I let it out through rhyme
A therapeutic thing
I like to do in my free time.


I wasted hours doing
Not necessarily enjoying
Filling up small hours
With inanities and toying
With big ideas but never quite committing
And I should
Because waiting til I’m ready
Will not do me any good

Loft clearance

I ascend the ladder, filled with determination

Brimming with good intentions

I poke my head inside

It’s chocka

Rammed to the rafters, 

swollen with souvenirs,

Articles from each episode 

or phase of our life.

Clothes, books, costumes,

Electrical items, wires,

Musical instruments lie silenced

hoping to be played

Neglected cherished detritus

A treasure trove

and a weight around my neck

I long to live lightly

To be free

As I trawl through the build-up 

In each corner

It consumes every surface

Boxes and Boxes 

Trash.

Tennis rackets, roller skates, hockey sticks

Scrap books, teddies (mine, his and the kids)

Every piece a memory

The aim – to bin a skip-

 full.  I lift, remember, put back

I can’t let go

I’m way too sentimental

I don’t know why!

It’s all just stuff, 

festering above my head

Until the next time when

 I reach for it

In another vain

 attempt to be free.

These trinkets glow in my hands,

each one transporting me back.

Why can’t I just store memories in my head?

Why the need for a reminder

 that’s substantial, that’s physical?

So much less space intensive

Way more liberating, but…

What happens when memory starts to fail

What will remain of me, of us,

of the lives we lived? And so

I allow these precious, throwaway articles

one more stay of execution.

Descending the ladder with a heavy heart.

That familiar feeling of enduring impotence.

Failure.

I close the hatch and reflect

I’ll try again next month

Tuesday night Mcflurry

‘Number 36’ came the adolescent server’s flat, drawn out call

Though it could have been any other number

It was a Tuesday 

It wouldn’t be any other night of the week

It was just past eight.

It was always just past eight 

when the call would emit 

some teenage employee’s lips,

heralding John’s visit.

19 short yet eager steps

from formica table to formica counter.

Just past eight,

time to exchange the slip of paper in his hand

for the goods equaling its worth.

19 steps back,

a pot in each hand, 

and 2 perfectly sized plastic spoons.

One for him and one for his girl.

Eileen takes hers with a thanks

and a youthful smile.

Spoon in hand they dive in.

There was a time,

when they would order four

for two adults plus two teenagers. 

A Tuesday night bribe

for helping with the shopping.

Whipped soft-serve vanilla ice cream

with a confectionary topping.

Perhaps they should have called time on this tradition

Made a last-century relic of it

After the kids’ lives moved on

Son and daughter moved out

This Tuesday night routine survived,

 had become their time out

Wedding plans excitedly made with Kitkat on the tongue

Sweeping grins and giddyness over a dessert laced with Creme Egg 

wrapped up in the news of their first grandchild, Riley.

Flake, the year that Ivy-Jade arrived 

When life was as delicious as the Tuesday evening treat.

With Oreo’s came worry, appointments, scans and headscarves

Abandoned Tuesdays, lacking appetite

Treatment schedules and battles to be fought within their own four walls

Fear dominating the day to day 

Now that the worst has passed,

he watches Eileen spoon and savour

scoop after precious scoop

so glad that it’s Tuesday at just past eight

and that he’s here with his girl.

He contemplates how he could not stand

 to eat his Mcflurry alone.

Flowers

I bought myself flowers

I sometimes do

No one else seems to think

that I may feel joy

to receive them.

Two pounds

and ninety-nine pence

brings joy in spades.

Now my supermarket bouquet

relaxes in a clear, glass vase

I observe it’s stalks,

toned legs bathing in crystal waters

The green fronds of leaves

reach out over the lip to me

Atop sit a dozen radiant heads

of silken petals

with tips, a shade

of blancmange pink.

The hue of slightly embarrassed cheeks

that melts to butter cream.

At least someone thinks to buy me flowers

It’s so important that it’s me.

Entitled

I fucked up,

but somehow,

without much effort,

I truly believe that

I can make it

ALL YOUR FAULT



Because you should have broadcast

on the radio

or sent an airplane

with one of those banners

trailing,

sending instructions across the sky

and maybe then

I might not have forgot

what it was that

I was supposed to do

but, as that didn’t happen,

I, the stupid asshole,

lay the blame

SOLELY

upon you.

Out of fashion

In, yarn over, out, repeat

Single, double, decrease invisible

Did I really get that old?

Is my life so stale and miserable?

I don’t dress like a grandma

I don’t think that’s permissable

Absorbed by this twee pastime

one that others may think risible

I make things

Of no import

That give pleasure

Made – not bought

Productive

Creative

Satisfying

Purposeful

Joyful

Relaxing and crocheting

Life can be a little dull, still

I’m happy and that’s all I need to be.