September

A poem for a transition month. How small things and big things interact.

September

Stepping out from August isolation

the September sun is warm enough

to mask the coming storm. 

The damp grass is ready to be mown,

a new blade slices clean and green

shards gather in the basket,

carrying the final scent of summer. 

The engine throbs as, row by row,

the lawn is shaved. 

A spider has built a web that stretches

from the barbecue to the wall. An insect

thrashes in the sticky cage as its captor

edges towards it. 

The mower's noise causes the spider

to scurry, dancing along the threads

until hidden from view. Its meal

can wait. 

The broken fence has held out 

for another year. Battered, faded

brown, its strange dignity resists

the inevitable final fall. 

Nettles grow beneath it, gloves

ripping to protect from their pinprick bite.

I feel the gathering wind, time

is running out and I too retreat, 

sitting by the window to watch

the clouds fattening in the darkened sky. 

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by Thomas Wolter from Pixabay

Ruth

In memory of Ruth Bader Ginsburg (15 Mar 1933 - 18 Sep 2020) 

The first two lines of the poem are from Renascence by Edna St Vincent Millay.

Ruth 

And all at once, and over all 

the pitying rain began to fall;

it fell on high, and drenched the low

and reached the wall with Mexico.

New England leaves began to turn

but Western fires still wildly burned;

the city streets were slick and dark

and lights went out across the park.

Sagely they nod and shed a tear

but they've waited many a year;

their brutal fists will beat once more

to smash down her protecting door

and Justice wept throughout the night
for she had lost her shining light. 

Tim Fellows September 2020

Whitwell Woods

Written as a tribute to Charles Causley's Eden Rock. Hopefully it works without the last line, which is rightfully his.

Whitwell Woods

We entered through a narrow gate

and burst into an open glade;

cool, still, half-lit air

invited us to tread on trails

thick with the bones of trees

and green, wind-scattered leaves.

Trunks, rough-skinned guardians,

told of ancient times. Above,

song filled the canopy as if angels

lay beyond. Roots heaved

through the dirt like Pacific

humpbacks breaking the surf.

The path narrowed and forked.

Each direction held new

journeys. Underfoot the leaves

turned brown. The spots of sun

no longer guide our way

and the ground grows soft.

In the meandering brook a frog

flicks the reflected leaves,

breaking cover. The stones,

cloaked in moss, are worn.

We hold hands and step across;

out of the woods into illumination.

I had not thought that it would be like this. 

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by Valiphotos from Pixabay

The Children of Iraq

I was listening to the radio on the way home from work last year and there was a piece about the effect of the war on children in Iraq. The poem has been difficult to finish, but this generation of children in that country, and all countries devastated by war, is scarred and anyone with children or grandchildren can only imagine the trauma if they were ours.  

The Children of Iraq

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq

I heard on the radio.

Growing, forming thoughts

and feelings,

hit with trauma

like a mortar landing in your garden

when you are playing

and blowing off your leg.

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq.

A father spoke in monotone of

how is son was paralysed;

shot by person or persons unknown

for no reason.

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq.

They watch, their dark eyes

burning darker images,

as their homes are destroyed,

their parents killed. Blood,

so much blood.

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq.

In their offices far away,

leaders sign the dotted line

for billions to be spent

on contracts

for the rebuilding of Iraq.

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq

There aren't enough psychiatrists

in the world to heal

the children of Iraq

 

Tim Fellows 2019 

Image by Welcome to all and thank you for your visit ! ツ from Pixabay

Garden Olympics

Garden Olympics

It was a good job that our garden
was big enough to be
the site of the Olympics
organized by me.

We all picked a country each;
Tom wanted Italy.
Barry wanted to be Britain,
and USA for me.

We sprinted up the browning lawn
and hurdled our way back
over some upturned garden chairs
then rested for a snack.

We held a cycling time trial,
down the street, round the bin.
Barry cried when he fell off;
we had to let him win.

We tried to do the pole vault
with a clothesline prop
but then our mum came out the door
and told us all to stop.

Plastic plates made us a discus.
it put us in a spin.
Pampas grass was very handy
as a safer javelin.

We had some gold coin chocolates
saved from Christmas Day
that we used for the gold medals
the prize after the fray.

When mum shouted tea was ready
we went to watch TV
the Garden Olympics heroes
Barry, Tom and me.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Агзам Гайсин from Pixabay