Ghost story night at Writing class.
Spooked, we giggled in the car park,
scraped ice from windshields,
boosted heaters, went our ways.
My way was lonely, dark:  Willow Lane.
I thought "Don't now call up the scary tales,
the ghostly motor bike, the eerie glow."

But they came anyway so I drove fast,
saw the lane rush to meet me,
my rear-view mirror askew
in case my mind placed a passenger there.
But he was in the hedge.  A man, unmoving,
coat collar up, staring like a sentry.

Later, in sunshine, I saw him again
the sawn-off tree, and laughed.  
Wondered at the transformation dark and fear had wrought.
I called him Bill, sought him out on night-time journeys.
He rendered Willow Lane benign, quelled fright,
made safe the silly tales,

until the night he waved …

Down in the garden where moonlight doesn't reach,
the water is boiling with embracing couples.
Slithering and submerging, surfacing, sinking again
in their alligator rolls, legs pushing, touching others and veering away.

Not yet Beltane but the drive is strong and urgent,
they meet once a year in this fecund rite, old hands and new.
How long they seem to stay beneath the water,
skimming the bottom where smooth newts bide their time
gliding in lithe figures of eight.

Back on the surface throaty voiced princes, hands spread upon their lover's shoulder,
stare into space at either side and sigh all hours of the night.

Tomorrow in warm sunlight they will spread, replete
upon their tapioca pillows dotted with new life.

Yesterday was a good day.
We bought shoes and you knew the price,
and we laughed at the man in the café who smashed a plate.
Today you remember the man, but the shoes have slipped from your grasp
to lie discarded with bits of your life,
and fragments of last week.

You are leaving piece by piece,
for a comfy world of platitude and repetition.
Sabotaging all attempts to hold you back,
you are content and unafraid; while I turn to ice,
ready to score and crack with the effort of normality.

And when this is finished
I hope these things will slide as easily from me,
leaving instead that day in the fifties when we walked,
heads thrown back, sunspots dancing,
searching for skylarks.

Around the rim of the dried up pond
the numbered lambs are running.
Joe has watched them for hours
noting the way they leave the ewes, form groups,
follow a leader.

"Cup of tea, Mr Morris? I'll leave it here."
Joe sees the uniform retreat,
the kindly, comforting one.
The lambs are feeding now,
butting and tugging at swollen sacs.
Joe sips tea.

How long?  A few months?
till they're rounded up, taken.
He cannot think of it, turns his head,
puts down the cup, careful not to clatter,
picks up the paper but his arms cannot hold it.
Closes his eyes.

Between wake and sleep
no one is running.
Joe sees his lamb with its mother,
soft, dark curls. Rounded up, taken.
In the wagon for Pitchipoi.
The uniforms fade with the mother's whisper
"Joseph, Joseph…"

Early spring just past Imbolg
And among the still-dark hawthorn
Garlands. Posies for Bride, white
amid the black thorns.
I make a mark on paper, a scribbled map.

In the set-aside a lengthy stretch
sparkles in strengthening sunlight.
Each tiny bloom a promise of dark richness
for later, when all nature sleeps.  Another mark.

Then I forget.  Put the map aside.
May blossom swallows the hedgerows,
Beltaine finds birds nesting,
And weeks on, at Lughnasad with its tired greens,
twigs snap and insects hum as I pass.

But Samhaine beckons.  I unfold the sheet and scan.
Muffled in scarf and hat I search for treasure.
Luxuriant fruit, not black but mauve and frosted,
firm to the touch and heavy in the basket.
Buoyant in the bottle, colouring sugar to deep red.

At Yule, with the birth of the light, the first taste.
It rolls like honey on my tongue and
I glow like solstice sunshine,
while among the still-dark hawthorn
She is sparking the life force.

You were not in my head, but a Landcruiser purred by;
Splattered screen, muddied tires and I put you at the wheel.
I heard your voice, a smoky laugh, a tale to tell
about the wheels, the speed, the rally.

So, now I read again the tributes;  
Clumsy words from men not used to outpouring,
with whom you’d skidded along forest floors; raced to the line;
grid referenced hidden tracks and Little Chefs.

“Sorely missed by all the team”
“Condolences.”  “I’ll think of you.”
“Burns Night not the same without our Englishman.”
“Tartan Control is clear.”

Mud is dried, flags and barriers stacked away.
The deer reclaim the forest, motors a distant whisper.
Radios, all whine and hiss, tune for the call:
“Tartan 6 is clear and free to stand down. Over.”

It’s nearly 4.15 and still quite dark
Where other night time creatures make their mark
We wait for the next transport to arrive.
Orange haloed rabbits find they survive
On weeds in tarmac where we come to park
Away from lorries and the fox’s bark
And weary travellers take a slower drive.
We veer from others’ gaze and stand apart
When on the bus with luggage stowed away
But glance at clothing, wishing we were smart
Instead of dressed for passenger melee.
And praying for no unforeseen delay
We’ll trundle to the gate where we depart.