The Matter of Death and Life!
Our welcome wanders in – on a random raincloud – as a shower starts to fall,
Tip-toeing softly like the teardrops of melody – building a rhythm and touching us all!
Condensed in a moment the tap dancing stops – before the circling of the Stones,
The leafless Silver Birch – stand tall within a twist of spines – like a gathering of bones!
The Fruit Trees swell a blush – In a veil of buds – and the Primroses begin to peep,
The grass it still grows – through the tread of your toes – holding a waking from winter’s sleep!
Silence is golden and shimmers silvery light – below the skirting of the clouds,
Riddled with birdsong and the cry of the wind – where nature forms the crowds!
With a sudden encore – of raindrops in reprise – we retire to break our fast,
With a gathering intensity – the show of the shower – was never going to last!
To the east a pair of Pheasants – climbing the hill – taking cover within its grass,
The songbirds dart and chase – the lace of the hedgerows – while the pigeons over pass!
With the extending reach into the afternoon – the elements they seem to calm,
A pair of Buzzard’s – rise up in the west – and oh so near – they circle like a charm!
Preparations reached crescendo in time honoured fashion – with a sounding of the gong,
With a gathering formed – where hearts are warmed – for all who came along!
Celebration remembered the flow of the year – as the seasons come and go,
A pathway to follow with the life of the Sun – in its cycles – in its flow!
With the tasting of mead and the toasting decreed – the daylight comes to fade,
The lanterns they grow with their dark kissed glow – as the closing notes are played!
With the dying of the sun-wheel comes the longest night – and the building of a fire,
Greeted by the rattle of a low flying Pheasant – with an east to west desire!
A Tawny Owl calls to the dark of his day – on the wing and out for prey,
The fire it flickers and takes its hold – with the tongues that feel their way!
The stars cast their visions of remembered friends – in many a shape and form,
The moonlight bathes like a sea of comfort – with moonlight shadows close and warm!
Contemplation finds its spot – In the heat of the flames – where a question never ends,
We heard Tales of Wales and foreign trails – of long lost faces and absent friends!
Hot potatoes warm the cockles against the chill – with their buttered fluff of white,
The flames they wrestle the wind and it’s gusting – on the lantern jars so bright!
With the midnight hour comes the call of Owls – against a sky so crisp and clear,
In a thrice of voices with a range of sounds – distant cousins – drawing near!
Communication over and we are one with the shush – wisps of cloud they race on by,
Casual sailing tufts – pushed on by in the rush – across the brightest star crossed sky!
Still the moonlight reflects in the hedges and trees – as the cold and tired drift away,
And so we sink into the sleep of the longest night – at the ending of the day!
Biting to the bone – the cold of awaking – a call for layers in the wee small hours,
There’s a crisis averted with the drawing of breath – to the sound of local showers!
The glowing of embers – calls before the dawn – and we wait for the rise of the new born Sun,
With the slowly creeping of the light – behind the hill and to our right – the day it has begun!
A tide of Crows – greets the hint of dawning – in a multitude of waves,
Flying north to south – sharing directions by word of mouth – a vision the notebook saves!
The morning chorus paints a subtle shade – against the nervous Pheasant calls,
A young Wood Pigeon – huddles in the ivy of the old Hawthorn Tree – that leans but never falls!
Breakfast is taken by the warmth of the fire – before the making of the Holly and Ivy wreaths,
The Sun hides its secrets – around the rise and fall of the hill – as the hastened wind it breathes!
With the fading of the fire we make with our ready – to welcome the re-birth of the new born Sun,
With a couple of temporary breaks in play for horizontal rain – before all was said and done!
The wind stormed through the threads of our buffeted words – carrying their voice away,
With the power of distraction blowing over empty bottles – with a mauve thick cloud of grey!
Windswept and interesting we came to a close – and supped the final dregs of Mead,
Returning the circle to its former glory – where the future plants its seed!
When the Grove is restored – with just the flicker of flames – we take our leave and say goodbyes,
With kit-bags packed – we head off for the gate – and depart under threatening skies!
Wading in puddles and scraping the verges – we cross the stream off to the west,
We follow our path with its homeward bound – as the elements dance the self-expressed!