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

Greenhouse

This memory was revived by entering a greenhouse at Dobbie's Garden Centre, where they were using some tomato plants to help sell it. The smell was very vivid.

Greenhouse

It's the smell that lingers
longest in the memory.
Opening the sliding bolt
to a deep, rich, earth scent
of Solanum lycopersicum
stealing through the creaking door.
The visceral urge to pluck the shiny
fruit from its slender stem.
To rip through the outer layer
and let the juice flow. Consume
it all; seeds, flesh and skin.
Just to smell the richness
of the fruit, close-up,
the mustiness of leaves, vine, soil
was reward enough.
It had been a long wait, from the first
tiny fruits, through green to ripe red.

Scattered around the jungle of plants;
pruning shears, a small trowel,
a larger trowel, screws and nails,
nuts and bolts, a metal watering can.
An old cracked pane of glass
propped against the guinea pig cage.
The pair of scrabbling creatures,
protected from the northern
chill in colder months,
chirping approval as I feed them.

One day, as I stopped to say hello
on the way to school
I found one lying, unmoving,
eyes glazed.

Grandad added his tobacco smell
to the mix; leaning over
to confirm that it was dead.
He told me not to worry and to go to school.
When I came back, it was gone.

Tim Fellows 2019

Image by Irini Adler from Pixabay

Father's Day

A poem for National Poetry Day based on a true story. After my mum died we found this self portrait of my dad when he was 42. 

Self portrait J Fellows 1978

Father's Day

I saw you, as I walked past
the shop on that wet Sunday.
The slight hunch of the shoulders,
the balding head, the walk.

But it couldn't be you
because it's been fourteen
years since you left us.
Unable to fight any more.

I had to stop and smile
for on closer inspection
I realised it was just
another duplicitous reflection.

Tim Fellows 2019

Verde

This poem was drafted at a Poetry Business workshop and is based on a real incident on the green dry river bed between Cabo Roig and Cala Capitan beach.

Verde

The verde is refreshed today

drenched by last night's thunderclouds.

The earth has quenched its thirst

dry enough for sandaled feet

to raise dust from a path

scattered with slivers of shattered glass.

I look to a sky

that redefines the colour blue,

carrying a small plane

whose engine harmonises

with the relentless insects

hiding in the trees.

As I look down a gecko stops,

stock still. I stop too

and we both wait for the other to blink.

I look away and glimpse the sea.

When I look back, he is gone. 

Tim Fellows 2019

I Fell at Towton

The Battle of Towton took place during the Wars of the Roses in the spring of 1461. There was heavy snow. It was long and brutal, possibly the bloodiest battle to be fought on English soil.

I Fell At Towton

Red flesh, vivid on splintered bone
where blood flows in angry 
torrent my unseen foe emerges 
through the thickening snow 
that dulls the sound of screams and roars;
mace aloft to strike a cruel blow. 

His eyes a blaze of fear and hate;
his breath in plume
as in a scything, swirling blur 
of arms he aims 

to crush my head, it glances 
from my helmet as I swerve 
but slip and fall where mud 
and gore have mixed with ice 
slick from the snowy squall. 

On the ground I lie and to my right 
a comrade lies, a trace of tears 
frozen on his empty eyes
that stare as once they stared in birth, 
and now must gaze on death. 

A blade is lifted to the sky
and as I await its fatal bite 
I see the snow is settling now 
covering bodies with a shroud of white 
and I can only think that how 
the rose I served must win 
or why else did I fight?

Tim Fellows 2019

Orihuela Market

Written after a visit in the winter of 2019.

Orihuela market

Out

The camels smile their lugubrious smile,

kneel-lying on the cobbled street

as one of the herd clambers to its feet,

to carry the excited child.

The boy, a swirl of bravado and fear

rises and jerks towards the sky.

His sister clings, with no pretence,

between the humps and squeals and cries.

Exotic scents drift through the crowd

out from the stalls, a Moorish feel,

the dancer's hips make snake-like lines

to the pipe's mesmeric reel.

Meats, skewered and layered, drip fat

scents of spice drift in our wake

Full legs of ham, great wheels of cheese

and tempting us, huge slabs of cake.

Back

Candy floss and toffee apples

hints of Britain

in the winter sunshine

banished by churros

dipped in chocolate.

An array of trinkets made from

the bones of animals

No hay maltrato animal

the sign informs

Under the mighty wall of rock

the church's bells hang in loaded silence.

A man who resembles

our image of Jesus

silently passes by its door

The sun is cooling now
and the crowds drift home.
The camel chews and dreams
of deserts.

Tim Fellows 2019