On Sunday afternoons I took my father’s hand,
we walked the river Wandle’s bank,
observed anglers on their silent watch,
reeled in a different catch.
With ears for nets landed songs of birds,
each lively as a fish jumping
from it’s captor’s grasp. We let each quarry
dance away, it’s tune having danced into us.
When the stomachs fed by our ears were full
we turned for home, where birdsongs leapt,
my mother’s fingers adept at coaxing them
from a recorder’s wooden throat.
In the warbling thicket of our dining room
we took out the RSPB Handbook of British Birds,
matched our catch of tunes to their singers,
by comparing notes on colour, shape and
silhouettes of wings captured in flight.
Till the stomachs fed by our ears were settled,
and our stomachs that craved food took command.
As mother’s birdsongs from the living room subsided,
her kitchen nest oozed roasted savours in gravied hues.
Book of Memories
I look forward to the future
And at times I look back upon the past,
And I hope I'll keep my memories
For as long as my life may last,
And I hope that the album of my life
Will have an expanding trend,
And that my ability to refer to it
Will stay with me to the end.
I hope its colours never fade,
Or its bright reflections dull,
For from these is the person made
And a life can never be full
Unless the memory stays clear
For those remaining days,
Without fading into the mists
Of an autumnal evening's haze
To gradually disappear
Into a wintry fog bound Hell,
Because a person without a memory
Is merely an empty shell.
Fresh green leaves
Small and soft
Like balus hands
The caterpillar’s cocoon
hides a metamorphic haven,
the tiny creature locked inside
embarking on its poignant mission.
The cocoon’s shell hardens
each new day
protecting the transformation within,
the life in its womb has far to go
before its new cycle can begin.
Then after many micro miracles
unfolding in its seams,
the refuge starts to split
and reveals a butterfly unwrapping fragile wings.
As I watch nature’s splendour
I delight in its infinite glory,
because I am like a butterfly
emerging with a new life story.
My mind can sometimes be troublesome
causing pain, distress and worry,
but I am slowly conquering my anguish
and will flourish, reborn as me.
And also just like a butterfly
my journey’s just begun
I will transform and re-emerge
from a cygnet to a swan
although I stagger through life’s maze
of sorrow and dejection,
I will survive, I will endure
and I will overcome