Amid the excavators tearing up The ground, an overwintering tree still stands, Surviving on its grey grass island In a sea of concrete, brick and builder’s sand,
As history once again is overlaid According to some grand expensive plan. And yet its roots run far beneath to where The old Elizabethan leat once ran.
So though a busy din rings out around The site, maybe one day in the spring, The blackbird will return and over all The noise its ancient melody shall sing.
Inspired by a visit to the Wetherspoons of this name in Camden, and a visit to Wallace collection…
Across the sticky, ale-stained tables play Out myriad dramas of the every day Like those, perhaps, depicted by the Dutch Old Masters, with such acuity portrayed;
Young couples navigating their first dates – Him laughing a little much too long and loud, Her checking her appearance with great care – Some lively theatregoers in a crowd
With early drinks to help the evening flow; Philosophers debating the offside rule And whether VAR should’ve intervened Or if the referee was simply fooled;
A mother with her not quite teenage kids Before the awkward, independent years, While hidden by a pillar, some scruffy youth With headphones on, eats through a scraggy beard.
Within this ever changing tableau, you And I are also actors passing through, Part of the city’s endless, countless throng In which I need to stick right close to you.
Within the slanting sunlight of a late Autumnal afternoon leaves russet brown And washed out green are caught upon the breeze And in a whispering shower come tumbling down,
Some to be trampled underfoot upon The path already churned by darkening rain, Some borne along the winding old canal To drift towards the steep declining plane,
And as we wander hand in hand I think How winter very soon will strip the beech And oak completely bare, and how the warmth Of spring will lie for months beyond our reach
And how such memories of a tranquil day Will help to keep the lengthening nights at bay.
There’s a beauty in the pale, transcendent moon, That science on its own cannot explain, And as the eye perceives the wondrous light, And then informs the weary, working brain,
Somewhere within a sense of awe and joy Bursts forth, defying reason’s icy cold Appraisal, so as the city starts to wake A lingering sense of hope the soul enfolds.
A sleepy day in Budleigh Salterton – Beneath the azure sky, with paper layers Of fragile cloud, a postcard seaside scene; Sun worshippers sprawled out in stripy chairs,
And joyful toddlers heaping stone on stone, And teenage sweethearts sharing fish and chips, And slowly shuffling with their walking sticks, Old friends with many memories on their lips,
And while you brave the tranquil, chilly sea My eye is drawn towards the small white yacht That sails along the edge of what is seen, And as it fades from sight I wonder what
May lie beyond the boundary of my view, And if my course is somewhere known or new.
I miss the slow engagement with the word, And physical embodiment of text, The days when all along the shelves I’d search To find the end and object of my quest
And then at last within my hand to hold That precious world of freshly printed ink, Beyond whose cover I’d discover a cast Of friends – and sometimes foes – who feel and think
In such a way to touch my soul within, And in the turning of each fresh, crisp page, I’d eagerly pursue their every move To gain a vision of that wider stage,
On which we all are called to act our part. The text is pixilated now, to browse Is simply with a mouse scroll up or down, And words endure but for the here and now.
What if we learnt to read and read again, To savour every carefully crafted phrase? To cultivate within each humble heart A sense of wonder, an openness to grace?
The phone box has been removed from the end of our street
For years it stood unloved, unused, a place Perhaps to smoke a joint, or etch your name Upon the smeary panes of splintered glass And advertise for brief, illicit fame.
But once there would have been long queues outside As starstruck sweethearts planned their special date, Or someone rang the council to complain, Or giggling schoolgirls pranked their hapless mate.
Thus a thousand conversations flowed, A stream of prose within graffiti’d walls, That grows and grows until the coins run out, Or else the operator ends the call.
And all the while the jilted lover waits Just to hear this phone box ring. But that is past, Long past, marked only by a plot of earth, Soon to be lost amid the uncut grass.
At last the flooding rains have ceased, and with The dawn of May the long awaited sun Breaks forth upon the cemetery path All muddy where the storm-fed streams still run
(Despite the council flood prevention scheme) Where toddlers love to splash without a care And long-haired dogs rush in to roll and play, And yet my gaze is focused quite elsewhere.
For just beyond the cracked and crooked wall There is a far more gentle, peaceful scene – A sea of vibrant bluebells breaking on A weathered headstone, by the years washed clean,
And there a lively robin starts to sing, To greet the long-delayed, much-needed spring.
The cold November deluge hit Adam in the face as soon as he came out of the courtroom. Usually he would have checked the weather forecast well in advance and taken appropriate measures. But today he hadn’t and today he didn’t mind. He stood quite still for a moment, feeling the rain soak through his hair, then his jacket, and then down his back, as if ritually cleansing himself from the first day of the trial.
Adam had always accepted it was part of his job to attend court and in the normal course of events it was a task he undertook with reasonable equilibrium. But this trial was different for all kinds of reasons, and Adam knew just how much he was personally invested in the outcome.
The accused had sat quite still behind the perspex screen all day, with barely a flicker of emotion, not even when the mother of the victim broke down while the evidence was presented in full forensic detail. He remained steadfastly unmoved, his head slightly bowed, his keen blue eyes focused resolutely on some point a little way ahead of him. Only at the very end of the proceedings did he turn and face Adam directly, as if issuing some kind of challenge. Was that a smirk behind his face mask? Or a sardonic smile? It was hard to tell. All Adam knew was that the old man in him wanted to rip that mask off and punch him hard, while the new man whispered something about the fruit of the Spirit being self-control.
Conscious of how wet and cold he was, Adam found shelter in a nearby coffee shop. Later he would go out to his sister Sally in Harold Hill, but right at this moment the bustle of a chaotic family life was the last thing he needed. He ordered a double shot espresso and checked his messages. He ignored nearly every one of them until he found the one he wanted to read, from his fiancée Sadie. They had planned to marry back in June but coronavirus had disrupted their plans, as for so many others, and Adam missed her terribly. Still, he had spent much of the last few years waiting for her and he reasoned that sooner or later the waiting had to be over.
So, taking a sip of his espresso, and checking he really was on his own, Adam clicked on her email and began to read…
The writings of Revd Tim Buckley 