River Mole

Crossing the Mole towards Box Hill


We parked beyond the rattling bridge, and took
The river path intent on walking far,
At our side farmed fields, slopes looming
To the left, eager as we’d seen
The clocks go forward, and the young leaves –
And, being older, my brother had a plan.

Before the stout new ones were safely laid
There used to be old stepping stones –
Moss-covered, weed-slippery, yet still there
Where swollen waters slid, their speedless curves
Leaving brown bubbles and a wake of silver;
And with our rubber soles we went from one to one,
That Spring day, climbed the steep incline
Of the wood-covered hill they led us to,
Hanging on to roots and trunks, until
We came to the strange tombstone
Near the summit, hidden amongst twigs and stems.

This man – the inscription clearly said –
Was buried upside down; the reason,
All the world is topsy turvy,
Walks the wrong way up, and so in Heaven
He would be the only one to enjoy
The trick of standing on his feet.

George Lavellier – just proud
Of the encroach of Nature – like
The stepping stones – his tomb
A statement for unwary ramblers,
Capsule of subversive logic; though the currents
Of fashion go noiselessly by,
He’s always hip and wittily eccentric.
I took him as a hero then, and benefactor
Bequeathing the best tonic he knew:
Subsequent decades confirm
From high up there, the illustrious view.

+++

River Mole

Crossing the Mole towards Box Hill


We parked beyond the rattling bridge, and took
The river path intent on walking far,
At our side farmed fields, slopes looming
To the left, eager as we’d seen
The clocks go forward, and the young leaves –
And, being older, my brother had a plan.

Before the stout new ones were safely laid
There used to be old stepping stones –
Moss-covered, weed-slippery, yet still there
Where swollen waters slid, their speedless curves
Leaving brown bubbles and a wake of silver;
And with our rubber soles we went from one to one,
That Spring day, climbed the steep incline
Of the wood-covered hill they led us to,
Hanging on to roots and trunks, until
We came to the strange tombstone
Near the summit, hidden amongst twigs and stems.

This man – the inscription clearly said –
Was buried upside down; the reason,
All the world is topsy turvy,
Walks the wrong way up, and so in Heaven
He would be the only one to enjoy
The trick of standing on his feet.

George Lavellier – just proud
Of the encroach of Nature – like
The stepping stones – his tomb
A statement for unwary ramblers,
Capsule of subversive logic; though the currents
Of fashion go noiselessly by,
He’s always hip and wittily eccentric.
I took him as a hero then, and benefactor
Bequeathing the best tonic he knew:
Subsequent decades confirm
From high up there, the illustrious view.

+++

Birdsong Memories

Birdsong Memories


Twenty years ago, there were birds which used to sing volubly together – blackbirds and thrushes included – so loudly sometimes they used to wake us up. It was beautiful though not always popular. Most movingly, a thrush sometimes sang in Winter.

In the late 'eighties, Kentish Town’s dawn chorus faltered and stopped. In the 'nineties we used to have stentorian crows who would tell the whole neighbourhood off. Then we had a few pigeons, until by the late 'nineties even they disappeared. From then on it has been silent and – quite literally – “No birds sing.”

Until just the other day….See previous post.

Birdsong Memories

Birdsong Memories


Twenty years ago, there were birds which used to sing volubly together – blackbirds and thrushes included – so loudly sometimes they used to wake us up. It was beautiful though not always popular. Most movingly, a thrush sometimes sang in Winter.

In the late 'eighties, Kentish Town’s dawn chorus faltered and stopped. In the 'nineties we used to have stentorian crows who would tell the whole neighbourhood off. Then we had a few pigeons, until by the late 'nineties even they disappeared. From then on it has been silent and – quite literally – “No birds sing.”

Until just the other day….See previous post.

Early Morning Code

Early Morning Code

Sometimes the Cosmos tells you what to do;
sometimes it doesn’t; no answer comes
from books of rules or deep inside of you.
There’s something wrong; it’s not clear where it stems.

4-in-the-morning cars pass, occasionally;
a bird is singing almost too far away
to hear it sing and all too quickly
stops – yet sweet enough for the inner ear

to hold onto. Who knows, who can say?
Is it still singing somewhere there
on the edge of hearing, down the road
in someone’s garden – to them a roundelay,
to us a fading cipher? This trickling code
stutters and sinks completely, goes off air.

Early Morning Code

Early Morning Code

Sometimes the Cosmos tells you what to do;
sometimes it doesn’t; no answer comes
from books of rules or deep inside of you.
There’s something wrong; it’s not clear where it stems.

4-in-the-morning cars pass, occasionally;
a bird is singing almost too far away
to hear it sing and all too quickly
stops – yet sweet enough for the inner ear

to hold onto. Who knows, who can say?
Is it still singing somewhere there
on the edge of hearing, down the road
in someone’s garden – to them a roundelay,
to us a fading cipher? This trickling code
stutters and sinks completely, goes off air.