UNITED KINGDOM

robert_j_berry@yahoo.co.uk

POPPIES

My father’s house is ablaze with poppies.

There is a small lawn,
Surrounded by hawthorn hedges,
Where his great gardener’s hands delve
Thrilled as a wild child.

Though his eyes still burn like bonfires

The heart’s death stays
Unspoken in the house.

Inside, all the timepieces have stopped.
There is a lasting silence.

In the flicker of widowhood,
He stands at the window
In a frayed pair of trousers

Pressing his sun stained face
Into the past.

WALKING ROUND THE CATHEDRAL

Walking round the Cathedral
I remember her great jade eyes

And the flow of her tears
Streaming warm
Down my face.

Only her irises burned with fire.

What recalls the feel of her skin now
Is the sheen on young, whole almonds,

And wild orchids.

Though the tongues of the cathedral bells
May go silent as I ache with the past,

I know what stirs inside my heart:
A kingdom of old memories.

THERA

From the ferry
She is a smashed rock
Steaming in the sea.

As evening boils away above the caldera

From the vantage of the terrace bar

Black lava beaches,

Pack mules sweating the rough courses
That eel up from the quay.

Peerlessly white is the cliff top town;
Monastery domes Aegean blue.

I remember the fresco of a Minoan fisherman
Proud with his catch,
A gymnast’s figure four thousand years old.

The ruins of floors, arches, trade,
All the rubble of time
Reliving

On this shattered gem
In the Sea of Crete.

LINDISFARNE

In a priory
Craftsmen work

The bright hues of creation fresh upon them.

Their hands
Have a command
Compelling as the sea’s whisper.

The gravity of faces
Faraway in their craft
Draws wonder.

Outside is another tale. Look down
Along the unconverted coast.
Tides lash the Points.
Salt stings like an invader’s sword.

The causeway, long as a beast’s tentacle,
Lunges for the mainland.

It makes my stomach
Sicker than doomsday.

Look to the monks
Calm at their trestle tables
Illuminating saints
In ecstatic gold.

Grace is upon them.

RAGE

Walking the fields, I have a headful of thunder.

The air is drier than dead thistle heads.
Bedrock stabs up,

Like bared fangs through the nettles.

Follow old trodden boundaries
Into the rabbit-thumping fields

You will find upended trees,
Cenotaphs to winter’s rage.

As I cross scrubland
Rutted over by centuries of farmers,
My shoes drill scuffmarks in the dust.

Sheep bells are the only voices here;
Sight the blinded eye of a ruined outhouse.

Under my footsteps
Root matter wriggles fingers that can
Punch through farmhouses,
Slowly.

© All Copyright, Dr. Robert James Berry.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.