Around Britain | Rowena Smith

Journeying

Journey

The land lay

Under the spell

Of hot midsummer.

Round hay bales,

Grazing cows,

Silver willows

By lazy streams;

Canals deep blue

Against parched green banks.

All flowing by

As the cars sped past

In the heat

Of the summer afternoon.

Margate Beach

Under the spell of the sun

You are almost beautiful.

Seagulls crying in the fading streets,

Peeling paintwork

Bright with colour still,

The chip shops and arcades

Topped with facades that speak

Of times that were more elegant.

On the beach, the sand

Is as golden and as fine

As ever it was,

And the water, still,

A rippling pale-blue silk

In the north-light of the bay.

On the horizon

The distant ruins of the ancient church

Sharing the scene with the wind farm,

While the elegant brickwork closer to

Shares its space with sunburnt skin,

Ripped jeans, boob-tubes and obesity.

It is a place of contrasts,

Of then, of now, and also

In the cry of the gulls,

Of long ago, before the then,

That is evoked in the fading elegance

Or the now of the chip-smell and arcades.

A time when this was a lonely

Marshy isle, wreathed in mystery

At the edge of the land.

Whitstable

The sea healed my mind,

Winnowing gently,

Scarcely breathing;

Each wave a swell

That did not break;

Its surface a sheen

Of palest silk,

Smoothing out the creases,

Softening the corners,

And bringing peace.

Dusk

At dusk the island

Grows loud with the sound

Of birds, and sheep

Calling their lambs.

No gulls cry on this peaceful shore,

But only the oystercatchers

And the grouse

Call across the empty

Bays and moors,

While the moon's silver beam

Softly kisses the silent seas.

Gallanach

The farm in the bay is old,

You can feel it.

On the headland, the ancient graves;

In the crook of the land

The byres of grey stone,

The trickling stream,

Cows on the beach,

Horses, sheep roaming the sand,

Gnarled trees protecting

The garden of fruit

And vegetables that nestles

Behind the hedge.

In the distance the age-old hills

Marching across the horizon,

While the eternal sea

Sweeps and shimmers between.

Yes, life has been lived here

For many long years.

Hens

In the copse, the hens peck the dung,

Scratching to the grubs beneath;

They have scratched together

These two friends, the whole long day,

Digging for their treasure,

Beady eyes and fluffy rears,

Sharp claws and gleaming feathers,

As hens have always done,

Heedless of the perfect picture

Of which they are a part,

Absorbed together in the business

Of their day-to-day.

Perfectly, companionably,

Blissfully ignorant,

And utterly content.

Holiday

Today I threw sand

For a dog who was

Wholly absorbed by its falling;

I watched the seals

Play in the bay,

The wagtail feed its young

Among the crusty weed.

I followed the plover

Along the gentle rill

Where the water meets the shore,

And I watched the flatfish

Settle by my toe.

I saw an owl fly from its roost,

And the heron fly to his.

I followed my child

Through the bog, by the cliffs,

To the top of the hill,

From where I looked out and saw

The land and the islands

Spread out in a blue and green tapestry,

Washed softly in afternoon gold

On the southward sea.

And now at dusk,

I hear the plover and the doves,

The blackbird and the gull,

The oystercatcher and the swallows,

And the distant sound

Of surf on the sea.

I listen, and am content.

Walk with my child

The tussocky grass

Is deserted in the green-gold light.

Heather grows here,

And tiny pink and yellow flowers,

Whose names I do not know.

Water glints in the pools

And the sheep track

Winds up and down,

Up and down,

To the end of the land,

Where it falls in stony cliffs

To the sea

Hungrily swirling,

Dark, blue-black below,

While the foam glints silver.

Far in the distance

The further islands lie grey

Against a golden swell.

Few come here,

Save the ewes and their lambs,

And the small birds

That pipe in the long grass

And among the iris leaves.

And we stand,

All alone

At the edge of the land.

Flowers

There are dusky-dark

Roses here,

Purple-pink against the sea

And their lime-green leaves;

Fuchsia hedges,

Vibrant and sweet tasting;

Thistles prickle the legs

As you walk through the grass,

And in the bright bracken,

Spark of the buttercup

And the unknown flowers,

Yellow on green,

With the dark glint of peat water

Sparking between.

Energy

If ever energy flowed,

It flows here, now,

In the space between

Me and you,

In the space between

Me and the deep blue sea,

In the space between

Sea and the golden sky,

In the space between

Seaweed and its shadow

On the sand,

In the space between

My eyes and the green gold land,

In the space between our hearts

When they meet:

Yes, the energy flows

With a force like the sea.

Samalaman

Yesterday I stood

And watched Heaven

Shed her light to Earth

In silver shards

From dark grey clouds

Across the silent silver seas.

It was a different face

To the one

she shows

In the rustling grasses

Of a country eve,

And yet the same deep melody

Shimmers within,

And weaves them

Into the Tapestry.

Whale

Today the sea

Was sparkling silver-grey,

Each wave etched,

Dancing

In the crystal light.

Far away,

Between ship and land,

I saw it - a rising hulk,

A sight I had not seen before:

The whale on his journey

Through the silent glassy seas,

Loudly calling beneath

The winnowing waves,

While the dolphins and the porpoises played,

And the gannets dived into the depths between.

White butterflies dance in my hot garden today,

And I know that far away

Orange and brown graces the thistles by the sea.

My garden is filled with plants

So vivid and so green,

And I know that far away,

A different shade

Is edging the sparkling sea.

Here and there,

And now and then,

The past and the hereafter -

Strange, how the heart

Can love so many things

And not be torn apart.