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

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