There's something in the woods I fear
As darkness starts to grow
I never liked to venture here
Ways home, I do not know

The frost down here I thought had thawed
Upon the beaten track
But ivy there has slowly clawed
Now dark is at my back

The sunlight was a hand to me
That reached down through the gloom
But now the only light I see
Is dripping from the moon

The darkness tumbles like a mist
Light only gasps and flees
As midnight crawls and turns and twists
And stalks me through the trees

A silence from the fog has spread
A silence dour as death
I only hear my fearful tread
Beneath my icy breath

A blackened aura stands astride
This deep midwinter night  
And lost, it drowns me like a tide
Alone in woods at night...

A river in the verdant hills
between the valleys softly flows,
and sweeps beside a churning mill
which sits just off the cobbled road.
I rest in cooling, soothing shade
then spy a cart with covered load
in this, the hottest stretch of day,
behind a set of heaving hooves.
The market does not trade today...
a hooded driver sits unmoved;
the wheels brush through the bowing plants -
transfixed, I watch the pair pass through.
While I recline upon the banks,
I’m sure I’m cast a fleeting glance.

A flower grows by a grave in Etaples...

It is so still and quiet here
as autumn winds begin to swirl,
yet these blue skies once shook with sound -
that noise which rang across the world!

Soft ground beneath my feet now green,
was watered then by sweat and blood
from those who left their warm, sweet homes;
our English dead...in France's mud.

Throughout the fields now ripe with crops,
rats ran amidst the guns and hurt;
wet mires of writhing bodies who
just sat to wait for death in dirt.

Our torch they carried high aloft,  
a beacon in the dark and toil -
their sacrifice has saved its light
whilst they lie here, in foreign soil.

Where men were doused like candle flames,
in saviours' footsteps...now I stand,
(and kneel amongst the stones to read)
a pilgrim in this holy land.

I've come to see my countrymen -
all those who wept and fell alone -
but they came here to give their lives,
so far from Blighty; far from home...

At once, crisp silence then is gone,
now blackbirds' song has filled the skies!
The morning sun is shining bright;
I take a breath and lift my eyes,

Flowers grow on the graves in Etaples



©

The village lane adorned in white,
as laden branches bow with snow,
is frozen this December eve
shown only by the lamps' dim light.

I look towards an icy sky
to see it cloudless, filled with stars;
a distant tree-top sheds its flakes
when robin redbreast leaves to fly.

Around the corner comes the ring
of bells upon the farmer's horse;
it's tethered up beside the church
from where I hear the chorus sing.

By dancing flames of candle fire
the stained glass windows show their scenes;
emitting such a dazzling glow,
and colouring the churchyard brier.

With all the village here of course,
I'll visit first the farmer's horse -
for it must carry such a load -
then make my way off down the road...

The floor of the wood is flooded with bluebells;
perhaps I should choose to pick those?
They roll like the seas in breeze of the evening
and wash through the banks where they grow.

Now round the next bend, the path to the cottage -
its occupant sits at the door.
The nearest, again, I’ve reached through the woodland….
it’s here I turned back once before.

A canopy cools in dappling late sunlight
I wring out my hands in the glade.
The hedgerows have streams of dog rose and foxglove
but tides of the bluebells cascade.

I’ll take a bouquet, spend only a minute.
Sweet scents on the wind as it blows
between the green boughs the wood has within it.
I step. I shall pick as I go.
For that is the least that I owe.

The hillsides in the sunrise bowed beneath
my gaze - their grasses parting at my stride.
A baying wind would whimper at a wave,
which quelled the ruffled murmurs of the trees.
The waters rose or waned when I gave word,
and at my breath the clouds dissolved to air
or moved aside for days of blazing sun.

Those footprints I had left were scuffed to dust,
when others climbed and sat on stones I’d marked.
They hunted on my lands and gorged themselves
while feasting on the wealth that I had built.

These rivers flood their banks as I decree
to wash their footprints from the dirt I own.
I raise the thunder’s drum beat with a stare;
skies quake before the boots of marching storms.
A coronation for a king returned.

Lying in my cosy bed,
I can't drift to sleep.
Curtains drawn, I stand and gaze
in to night so deep.

Wind prowls through my old oak tree;
branches creak and moan;
ice is inching up the path,
glinting from the stones.

Air from heavy midnight breaths
lands across the glass;
clouds obscure a waning moon -
frost forms on the grass.

Snow has dusted garden tops.
Peering down, I squint;
in the finest sprinkled flakes,
boots have made new prints.

Mine are drying by the fire
with my scarf and cloak;
footsteps from the caller trudge
down towards the oak...

Fraying rope winds round the bough
over toppled chair;
nothing in the garden moves.
Frozen still, I stare.

From an old tree's groaning branch
where the bluebirds sang
just above the hawthorn hedge,
I can see him hang.

The gravel path has led me through the wood
where moonlight whispers down between the trees;
I tighten frosted scarf and snowy hood
as trickling woodland brooks begin to freeze.

No music left from any songbird throat;
there's no trace of the starling or the thrush.
Sharp, piercing wind comes lashing at my coat
while hawthorn hedges twist with blackthorn bush.

The oaks have rampant ivy taking hold as frigid breaths remain the only sound;
a screeching owl disturbs the silent cold
which brings the ice that coats the barren ground.

With sodden gloves I brush flakes from my sleeve,
and with a glance towards the sky, I leave.

At last I've come across a light.
I drop my hood and let a sigh,
on such a black midwinter night,
drift out in to the frosted sky
then see it leave with heavy eyes.

Old boots have creaked with every step -
no night has felt so cold this year;
along the country lanes I've crept,
my breath and footsteps crisp and clear
have been the only sounds to hear.

It's now too late to travel back
to find my prints in clean white lace,
as flakes begin to hide my tracks -
the next man here will see no trace
to show this was my stopping place.

Through falling mist so frail and thin,
set high up on a distant hill,
dim lights shine from a cosy inn;
blithe drinkers there will have their fill
while I'm engulfed by bitter chill.

Soft, even fields, so thick and deep
lie just outside the lantern's glow.
They'll lure me to an icy sleep
if from the well-worn road I go,
as still they're piling up with snow.

I lift my bag to leave the light;
on hedgerows I will leave no mark
on this, the longest winter night -
with upturned collar I embark,
and move in to the waiting dark.

With winter blanket falling deep
and crisp across the icy ground,
the road has brought me up a hill
and here a bridleway I've found.

I stop my horse; we turn and stare
down its black, winding thoroughfare.

Along the road lie village lights
that glitter in the midnight dark;
the hoof-prints now are veiled from view
as tumbling flakes conceal their marks.

The bridleway snakes round a bend
where looming mist tonight descends.

The road shows me the flowing hills
and valleys, hushed, all painted white;
this road leads forth to restful fires -
the bridleway to frozen night.

Untouched, its path is thick with snow
enshrouded from the moon's dim glow.

Far up its silent track, I glimpse
a farmer's fragile, wooden fence
and stile between the field and trail
in bramble hedges, high and dense.

Dismounting steed, to gaze and stand,
I hold the reins in frosted hand.

The soughing wind - the only sound -
then groans across the farmer's gate;
the trees and thickets, draped in snow,
are bowing with their winter weight.

I leave the road, towards the track;
my horse though tightens up the slack,
and reins in frosted hand pull back.

The church is sheltered by the trees
where splintered shards of crisp light lance
the dust which floats across the aisle -
through summer air I watch it dance.

My footsteps tremble here beneath
the knowing portraits’ saintly gaze
as abbots and apostles let
me pass them by in evening haze.

Between the branches, through the glass,
burst wilting reds and dazzling blues!
The creaking steps of leather boots
move through the crumbling, wooden pews.

Past David and the saint of kings,
the altar’s where I pause to stand;
a stone archangel greets me there -
I reach to touch his outstretched hand.

Towards the font, I cast a glance;
the pulpit flakes its faded paint.
I draw a breath of stifling air
surrounded by the watchful saints.

The church is sheltered by the trees,
and veiled from all but splintered heat
as Michael hears a groaning pew,
and there I wait upon the seat.