AS THE WHEEL

THE PLOT THICKENS

STRIKING A POSE

OFF THE MAP

DECEMBERLY

FEBRUARY... MARCH...

TREES ALIGN

IMBOLC 2019

Snowdrop melts into glass-crisp swirl.
Spring stutters
Under silver tresses
Of birch. Leant
Against the flaking bark,
Chilblain wrinkled,
Old one stoops
Arthritic with her
Dowager's hump,
Cradling the bridal bursting
In her lap,
Where the edge of thaw
Stains daylight
With its fluttering storms
Of crocus and inclemency.

She lifts her aged fingers
To the tent's sagged roof
To shed the snowfall
While she croons
Songs of weasel and of hare.
Earth's scald of inner friction
Too far beneath to warm
This refugee, this home-lost.
From temporary kitchens,
Soup pans
Nourish with blessings
Ladled into her bowl,
Whose simmering surface
Reflects the face of an angel.

In her arms, the youthful shoot
Still sheathed in silence,
Stirs and hears the lapwing
Curling and kiting
Through the wheeling wafers
Of persisting winter.

YOU ARE SNOWDROP. I AM ROBIN.

 Your dangling skull fixates on the damp path,

Rooted yet restless, nipped by a node of green,

Trapped in last year’s leaf loam from the cherry tree.

You are Snowdrop. I am Robin.

Across my dancefloor you throw your chubby shadow.

I hear shrill thrill from your syrinx

Part carillon, part weeping.

You are Robin. I am Snowdrop.

Why dance, pale nodding prisoner of the old soilways?

Why sing, blood-breasted fugitive from the rusty kettle?

Apart we know no tie or truck, one with the other.

Together we are heralds of the hopes of spring,

Pearls on a thread of joy sewn through the frozen earth

Birthing winter’s slow melt into blossom and blessing.

THE WINTER OF '63

The winter of '63 was the first winter I really remember as a toddler, growing up in the Dearne Valley, Yorkshire in the north of England.

I thought they would all be like this - the coldest winter of the 20th century. 

I remember the snow banked up the side of our house as high as the top of the downstairs windows; the snow falling in through the back door when my dad came home from work at the station, the frozen rails and the steam from the trains in the icy air; the adventures of making snowmen, snow dogs, snow lambs, snow horses, snow igloos, snow angels; the icicles hanging from the back of the coal-house, the outside loo freezing up and the chill of the tin bath we had hanging from a nail in the back yard; the ice inside the bedroom windowpanes, with no central heating but a smelly paraffin heater upstairs; the cloak of silence over the valley as it muffled the pit hooters, the crunch of feet through the village, the bleak singing of the birds in the frozen hedgerows. 

The excitement and anticipation and sheer wonder at this world of whiteness was overwhelming, untainted by dread and disappointment, with slush and slippy rinks of treacherous thaw an unknown thing for the future. 

WINTERING ON

A little something for you, whispered in my ear by the trees as the winter creeps shivering in.

Written in the Stars - or spelled out by the Geese!

Pink Footed Geese over Bolton-on-Dearne, flying back to RSPB Reserve Old Moor this weekend

The photo hastily clicked off from my mobile doesn't do them justice! Somehow the "rule of thirds" picture composition guideline was scuppered by that pesky overhead cable, but at least it gives some perspective to this winter spectacle!

I was disappointed to be too weak, as I often am, to make it to the beautiful RSPB (Royal Society for the Protection of Birds) Reserve at Old Moor, in the Dearne Valley near Barnsley in South Yorkshire. But as I was going to a friend's for lunch after church, I heard a honking getting louder and louder. At first I thought it must be a neighbour on the estate on the slopes of the valley who was keeping domestic hens. Then I realised the sound was coming from the sky, high above us.

I looked up to see an expansive "V" formation of geese streaming across the leaden skies of an unpromising Sunday lunchtime. People were going about their business. Folk were in their kitchens preparing meals. One chap was tinkering with his car further down the street. Nobody seemed to notice, but I was transfixed.

No, I didn't make it to Old Moor, one of my favourite local birdwatching spots, this time. But instead, the birds came my way. When I got home the following day, I tweeted about the birds and one of the lovely staff at Old Moor replied to my tweet that the birds were actually Pink Footed Geese. They also joked that they'd sent the geese out flying around as publicity in return for their B&B! It certainly worked!

I'm hoping, if well enough in a couple of weeks, and if I can interest two other birdwatching, skygazing friends to accompany us, to go to Cormorants & Constellations: Stargazing Returns! This is an event hosted by RSPB Dearne Valley - Old Moor in collaboration with the Mexborough & Swinton Astronomcal Society later this month. Taking advantage of the flocks of winter bird visitors and the spectacular night skies of late January, members of the public will be able to watch the wildfowl coming in to roost (after a fly-past like they're doing in the photo above!) before having a unique chance to look at the stars and planets through powerful telescopes.

There'll even be a planetarium set up in the Visitor Centre, footage of stars in the Classroom area and new film of our Earth from space, taken by the ISS (International Space Station). The latter will take in place in the Gannets Cafe/Restaurant. Anyone who has ever been to Old Moor will know that place is second to none in Yorkshire for its simple warm welcome and excellent food prepared from local produce. Booking essential, so I'm really hoping I can manage to be there this time!

Looking at that photo I took again, I reckon the geese have changed their usual "V" into a curly "C" to advertise the Cormorants and Constellations event at which they may well be among the stars!

You need to get out more

ME/CFS has a misguided conviction it can suck you dry from the inside, like other so-called "invisible" illnesses. It attempts to change your ability to think, move and function. 

People see a smiling face, they convince themselves you're well. I reckon that's better than always having a face like a fiddle!

So today, a little less crashed than often, I leapt at the chance to get out and about. Two dear friends rang and asked if I wanted to go to the National Trust park that's a half hour's drive away in the next county.

 "D' you fancy a trip to Columba?" 

My brain-fogged mental muscles had gradually reshaped this into the more realistic invitation to "Clumber (Park)".

 I got my walking stick, the dog's lead, my camera and waited by the door!

We arrived for packed lunch, sitting in the car overlooking the trees and fields which make the Yorkshire/Nottinghamshire borderlands so beautiful yet sometimes "overlooked" in quite a different way!  The sun was glowing bravely over a chilly smorgasbord of winter solstice sights and smells. Frost and fire lit webs and tendrils, the lake glistened with extra duck topping, dogs peed on scented tree trunks not seen for a while (the sign near the car park assured us "more "P" on the grass verges" or words to that effect - I  told the dog it wasn't an open invitation), and the corvines grizzled throatily from the Lime Tree Avenue.

For me, it was such a treat to get out into the healing countryside I used to walk and cycle in every spare moment I got. Today's outing was a refreshing  joy to share in Advent . OK, so now back home I feel like someone has taken a blow torch to my eyes and ears, put razor blades rather ungallantly inside my biceps and throat, my calf muscles are twitching and snickering like the nostrils of a well-bred horse, but my soul is soaring!

God bless, everyone;

hope you can treasure the quiet and quirky moments in your build-up to Christmas, and not get too trapped or drained by the frantic.