The Leather Pouch

Written at one of Ian Parks' Peace workshops

The Leather Pouch

Six weeks had passed
since that knock,
the half-expected shock
that fades to cold compliance.
Then
              she found it

His leather pouch, with some money in.
Coins, tiny pebbles of silver and bronze,
that took her to the place
where his blood soaked into the ground.
Reaching into its depths
she feels its velvet touch.
She closes her eyes and wonders,
in elongated moments,
what he saw.
The chaos and death,
the wheeling birds
cutting through emotionless clouds
laden with snow for winter's dawn.

The skies opened
the rays of maternal, eternal love
shine through the tears
and she feels the first soft touch of peace.

Tim Fellows 2018


Image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images from Pixabay

Flocking

Flocking

The leader makes its move.
In a swirl of space,
like dust in the first
gusts of a storm
they take flight.

Nature's pure choreography,
each tiny course correction
ripples, repeated countless times.

The beauty of shape and movement,
a ritual dance recurring
again and again, season on season,
year upon year. 

To the warmth and back,
with nothing but instinct,
they treat us to their show.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

The Lark Has Flown

Like to the lark at break of day arising
from sullen earth sings hymns at heaven’s gate - William Shakespeare, Sonnet 29

The Lark Has Flown

The flowers in earthy beds were gently swaying
Near where the lark had built her perfect nest
The ground absorbs the sound of children playing;
the breeze blows soft, the fragrant scents caress 

The lark flies high, she swoops and sweetly sings
Around and through the blossom laden trees
her call the catalyst that fuels and brings
the tiny creatures; lures the eager bees

But time flows cruel; its purpose to deny
sweet moments only it can take away
The sullen earth will turn; the skies will cry
and darkness will return to claim the day

The garden wakes when dawn's first seeds are sown
All seems unchanged except the lark has flown

Tim Fellows 2019

The Pigeon

Written on Cabo Roig beach, September 2019

The Pigeon

It was in the days after the storms
when we returned to the beaches
where animals and fish had washed up,
reeking of death and destruction.

No sign now, swimmers do handstands
in the warm salty water, waves break
gently, no longer crashing and ripping
the cliff paths and washing over
shoreline roads that lie warped like
plastic in the hot sun.

Blues music carries
well in the light breeze, children
dig in the sand and ex-pat beer-bellies
glow red or turn to teak.
Tapas, beer and cocktails
soothe the needs of the snaking queue.

The Africans lope gently between
chairs and towels, Elvis shades
and colourful beach mats over their shoulders.
The deaf woman leaves small
ceramic turtles, 2 Euros if you want.
She mostly retrieves them unsold.

A pigeon, ruby-eyed,
steps its way between the bodies;
purple necked, shimmering.
Its head jerks and pecks at the crumbs
offered at the sandy table. It is tolerated
as long as it doesn't encroach,
as long as it doesn't become
a problem.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay