Blackthorn

Although I’d been waiting,

I was still taken by surprise

as we sped between the hedgerows

suddenly to realize

that the blackthorn had exploded

into blossom and all around,

the countryside was brushed with white

like the driven snow, bright

in the spring sunshine

and I knew I had but a short time

to enjoy the cleansing light,

before the florets shed

like spent confetti to be flattened

into memory under wheels and feet,

and I wondered how much

will have changed before

I was caught off guard again

next year.

John H Davies

26th March 2011 

People you meet in pubs - III

I didn’t know exactly what was wrong with him,

or right with him, more like. He was standing at the bar

as I entered, smiling openly at me as if we had known

each other for years and he held my elbow as I pretended

to understand what he was saying, and we bought each other

drinks and later I drove him home with the roof down 

which he loved as we sped through the warm summer night,

the air thick with a taste of damp meadows and insects.

You came with me next time, and he was there again

and I introduced you, and you made a fuss of him,

and later he took me aside in a low whisper

and said he fancied you, and I didn’t know what to do.

John H Davies

24th February 2011 

Hedge Laying

The blackthorn is brittle, and he pulls the branch over

with care, like his ancestors the bowmen. Two or three

deft strokes of the billhook part the bough at its base

as if a predetermined split is programmed within its

DNA leaving only a strand of bark that will channel

next year’s rising sap and shape the ancient patchwork.

Lain over, he weaves the pleaches in and out of hazel

whips, each inclined at cubit intervals, measured from

fingertip to elbow, gathered early from his secret bower.

Stepping back he checks the line and selects the next

to lay, an elder, laced with late honeysuckle, and an old 

nest, and while the autumn sun warms his back his mind

occupies several places and one place; rising ewes in

flushing meadows, and ragged rams and spring growth.

John H Davies

24th March 2011

Libya No Fly Zone

Once again our leaders

commit already

overstretched resources

to an impossible task.

We could never hope

to eradicate all the flies

by air strikes alone.

The reality will require

troops on the ground

with swatters, and the

inevitable clean up.

John H Davies

23rd March 2011 

Wrekin

A short trip,

a generation’s leap;

new horizons,

or oceans deep,

a point of view;

a time of day

a different face

from any angle.

But always…

the familiar imprint.

Prominent, not

hidden from time

like Mitchell’s Fold

or Bury Ditches;

sharp in profile

familiar to the

sleeping legions

in its shadow.

Not brooding,

but deep rooted

like a terrestrial

iceberg, lone sentinel

shoring borders

from an eastern tide,

while they scrape

its surface without

impression.

John H Davies

22nd March 2011 

Any kind of snow

As a boy

he worked as a fireman

on the local branch line,

and in the winter

the driver could judge

exactly the right moment

to apply the brakes

so that the train

would slide down the hill

into Much Wenlock

and come to a stop

outside

the Station Master’s office.

John H Davies

21st March 2011 

Radiogram

Paris Brussels Vienna and Oslo,

Lyons Lahti Lisbon and Tromso,

Reykjavik Hilversum Prague and Athlone,

Luxembourg Kalundborg Strasbourg and Stockholm,

Motala Toulouse Marseilles Northern Ireland,

BBC Europe, Home London Home Midland

BBC Light and Home North and Home West,

The Third programme, Scottish and Welsh and the rest…

Lost in the hiss and crackle of fading static

consigned to the far corner of a cluttered attic

where invisible fingers run up and down the back lit dial

searching in vain the old stations from a forgotten Isle.

John H Davies

20th March 2011