“ . . . A Robin Redbreast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage. A dove house fill’d with doves and pigeons Shudders Hell thro’ all its regions. A Dog starv’d at his Master’s Gate Predicts the ruin of the State. A Horse misus’d upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood. Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fiber from the Brain does tear . . . ”
Contentment suffuses the scene And peace lies softly on the land Life languishes in its grip Labour held in thrall to lassitude Neglectful now of endeavour.
In the calm Of the midday sun The farm sleeps on Parading its contentment Revealing its accord With its heritage By just being there Seemingly throughout time Amid the rolling fields Savouring The languor of a lazy day The serenity Of a sublime summer
The quiet joy of existence Tells more of peace Than a thousand pacts Life lived In alliance with nature Endowing us with serenity.
When morning meets my melancholy I must refocus dispel my clouds and reconnect to nature through her glory
The garth gate invites pledges enchantment such memories harboured here once the cloister garden of my medieval monastery now still the repository of the priory’s peace ancient orchard now transformed but still a place to rejuvenate the soul to touch feel and taste nature’s serenity
The morning mist lingered low over the once fallow fields then no longer virgin earth but become thick with apple trees and those long gone and autumn dormant now awaiting its wheat-carpeted summer season
The morning advances only half-appreciated until the the priory arch proud against the sky bursts through the mist into the weak sun’s gaze the veiled sky allowing the gathering sunlight slowly to prove its strength and bring clarity to a waiting world
And The pathway its ancient course piercing its length into the shrouded distance remembrancer now of those Augustinian brothers traversing this ancient orchard
who with such care tended nature’s gifts now bare of fruit but never fruitless no longer cosseted by priestly presence and full of nuanced context still
For me …
The Applegarth my own memory of this sanctified place sings of golden corn bordering that arrowed path where also was the winning post the last gasp of those long-past teenage distance running races marking my triumphs measuring my success against the countless strides I had wrenched from my straining body to accomplish to lead the race the end of endeavours signifying my own my personal accomplishment.
This Life Is short Remember Honest and modest You’re not in a beauty contest.
So When I’m gone Do not pray For my godliness Just remember my gentleness.
If I Survive To be old One hundred and five I hope it’s worth being alive.
But It Only Merits it If you are still there To continue our love affair.
I am grateful to M.Zane McClellan who in his January 2016 poem ‘Repeating Pattern’ on The Poetry Channel, introduced me to The format of the Fibonacci Poem. He also gave in his blog the reference to the article on the ‘Poetry Foundation’ website, which gives the history of this fascinating verse format: What’s a Fib? Math plus poetry.
Essentially the ‘Fib’, as it’s creator, Gregory K. Pincus, calls it, will have 20 syllables in total, with the syllables in each of the 6 lines increasing in the Fibonacci sequence familiar in Mathematics and in Nature, that is: 1,1,2,3,5,8… ,
In my first attempt at this format, I have attempted to write a poem of 4 connected verses, with the added feature of making the last two lines in each verse rhyme.
Long lingering Lyn stretches her arms from the east and from the west faltering before then slowly gathering the courage to continue
Until at last separately these fledgling rivers tumble less tentative now more fluent and sure almost impetuous towards each other through their sovereign gorges
Plummeting now to where their destined waters meet in conscious confluence
A stillness then returns caution again prevailing tentative once more, remembering, regretting, still grieved by distant memory
But now able with measured movement to veer past the lighthouse by the river’s mouth and to slip softly into the welcoming sea.
On 15 and 16 August 1952, a storm of tropical intensity broke over south-west England, depositing 9 inches of rain within 24 hours on the already saturated soil of Exmoor, North Devon. The East and West Lyn rivers, which drop down from Exmoor, were swollen even before the storm. Debris-laden flood waters cascaded down the northern escarpment of the moor, much of it converging upon the village of Lynmouth in particular. In the upper West Lyn valley, a dam was formed by fallen trees, etc., but in due course this gave way, sending a huge wave of water and debris down the river.
Overnight, more than 100 buildings were destroyed or seriously damaged along with 28 of the 31 bridges, and 38 cars were washed out to sea. In total, 34 people died, with a further 420 made homeless. The seawall and lighthouse survived the main flood, but were seriously undermined. The lighthouse collapsed into the river the next day.
No murmur breaks the silence the afternoon is still the pool reflects the calmness which hovers in the air
The colours and the scent of flowers speak only of serenity and peace the splendour of the garden throbs with Nature’s pride a statement of the passion and the pleasures of creation
Tall distinguished Iris goddess of the rainbow clutch the water’s edge radiating their vibrant heritage stealing the sun’s power to enhance their golden presence their stature their boldness speaking their nobility and proudly defining their cool distinction
Whilst languid water lilies blanket the pool’s surface coveting recognition of their worth their foot pads watery meniscus a haven for the diffident carp shading all the pool’s life from the sun’s keen scrutiny
And then recalling their antique role in baiting that languorous youth Narcissus by encouraging the pool’s mirror to reflect his admiration bolstering his vanity and tempting him to his destruction
The morning threatens to burst its carapace And I await the beginning of a new day
And as the sun cracks the horizon’s shell And pours its yolk into today’s cup The world comes alive Spreads its panoply of colours Displaying its wanton nature In bright yet consoling shades Of golden yellow Straining to give back to Helios Due recompense for his diurnal toils
On such a day as this Is Nature disposed to display Its plenitude To boast shamelessly Of its joy in bringing Light and Life To a sad world