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J O H N S T O N E W R I T E R S G R O U P |
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FOUR POEMS by Clive Briggs FLAT LANDS Flat lands, fat lands of East Anglia, Drained richness of the sea's domain, Lying low under the bowl of blue, Waving yellow corn for many a mile, bordering wandering roads of heated tar across the dusty fertile plane on summer journeys to the glittering sea Sentinel guards the windmills stand to drain the would-be marsh Parading on earth work dykes Roman soldiers over the promised land. Basking in the evening glow, run stealers flicker too and fro on many a peaceful village green. Couples stroll along the muddy drains that wander to the sea. Habitat of wading birds and reeds beyond compare. Holiday families gaze and play on the verdant richness The hard won land bordering the muddy placid creek. But the tide turns, fuelled by man's abuse, The sun's heat penetrates ozone holes, Heat stays trapped by greenhouse gas, Temperatures rise, the chaos starts to build. Man's puny dykes and waving mills soon swept away by wind driven tempestuous seas, As sand castles on a children's beach. The sea will claim its own again, no more will quiet roads meander to the village pub and the sandy beach next the glittering sea. No more cricket on the village green edged with polite applause, Just the wild raucous call of the sea birds Sighting more distant undulating land. The Dreamers Lament There's a sale at Glen Turret; A clearing of the cellars; The disposal of old malts, Source of aromatic peat odours and colourful dreams, A dispersal of the water of life that served many a generation of Scottish folk. The Famous Grouse, new owners of the treasure, Have no space for old sentiments, In a distillery claimed the oldest of them all. History scattered in small bottles For an accountants profit. Maybe it's for the best, The bottled dreams of a flavoursome tipple Spread far and wide. Passed to the connoisseurs of Scotland and the world who will treasure it the more. Sentiment can still linger in the heart of man when not armoured in his business suit. A video of the Famous Grouse, now showing Visitor attraction in the modern style, Will bring more people to the Glen searching for a tartan world of make believe. Will sell a different spirit blend To suit a modern taste. But a way of living, a country craft, Is passing fast from local folk As profit seeks English tourist gold the modern way And blending replaces a single malt. Oh! were I a wealthy man, to purchase this reminder of a way of life. Its smells and flavours beyond compare, Distilled and garnered to linger yet Within a golden bottle of the nose-ed brew, Rekindling historic dreams of a glorious past. The Passing Drifting steadily eastward in light air Summer sails hanging limp, lifeless Moving slowly to the murky waters of the Clyde Reluctance in the elegant unhurried tacks A large yacht meanders home for the winter. Summer over, the west coast wandering bird leaves the sparkling blue island dotted world, Seals, dolphins and waders behind. A sprinkling of crofters in pullovers and heavy boots pull workaday boats on leaden seas as colour fades. Yesterday's gale, first of the season, found her in Crinan, Safe waterway to the welcoming arms of Stonefield Castle. Good anchorage with verdant gardens. Shelter from the storms of life. White table cloths, shining silver and glass, homage paid by scurrying waiters. Last west coast day of a departing season. Today the wind has blown out, Grey skies weep tears of mourning, The departing white spirit glides silently on. Tarbet reluctantly passed to starboard, Left astern to sink into the dreams of yesterday and the annals of another year gone. A sad stately farewell. But spring will return again with elegant boats, Jolly crews making Columbus sorties to a new world, Chapters added to the mariners' log of west coast legends. Whilst the slower flow of life in the west will continue New experiences floating on the sea of dreams and magic. STANDING STONE Lichened stone guardian of a Celtic world, Dominant Lord of all around, You saw Christianity appear and thrive Standing silent by day and night. No prate, no thought, just a presence, Powerful, free, standing serene, Symbol of a meditational calm, Influenced not by human kind. Visitors now in greater number come, Pilgrimage made easy in a mobile world, Can you provide surety and peace, Menhir of a magic age. Will any worshipping at your craggy shrine, Be influenced by your brooding calm, Take time out from their hectic life, To consider the example set. Or are we all in frantic dance on self destruction bent, Will we not learn the greater truths, Of life continued in this verdant glen. In ages yet beyond the ken of man, Will you still stand silent and serene, To be guardian of a barren land, Wrecked by man's Almighty hand. |