Roses are red
Passports now blue
Roses from Picardy
Passports now too
C Ray Stearn 27 February 2020
Tag Archives: Ray Stearn
Where do ideas come from?
Ideas for writing can appear from anywhere. Whilst shopping in Tesco (other stores are available) the day after Valentines Day I noticed quite a few single red roses, reduced from their original price to 50p and now offered for 30p. This got me thinking about love, romance, expectations, dreams, reality over fantasy, and the words are now rolling round my head.
The poem isn’t written yet – so watch this space!
The Holy Island of Lindisfarne
Weak, warning waves lap on the causeway,
Pulling me back to time and place and purpose.
Sounds from seals on the sands,
Regretful, rueful arias of past lives, eerily haunting.
Barn Owl on the wing, expect no sound here.
Lately, Little Egrets patrol the flats.
The smell of the sea
The strength of the wind
The weakness of promises
Gannets fly by in prehistoric formation
Never mindful of ship, or shore, or Saint.
A touch of rain on the face
A look of anger in the clouds
A jolt of anguish in the heart
Snow Bunting, no larger than resident sparrows,
Search for microscopic scraps on the shoreline.
Crunching boots on the shingle
Crashing breakers on the shore
Cringing memories of that moment and the day before
Another vehicle marooned by the tide
Another visitor to be taken aside
Another hopeful caught out by one who lied
The rhythm of walking
The subtlety of talking
The Roe Deer stalking
The warmth of the Cafe
The smell of the coffee
The taste of the crab
Copyright Ray Stearn 6th June 2019
Granddad Ray Stearn
Granddad
I’m with him
On the lawn that he has mown with precision.
We both stand down after tending his precious rows,
Blood-red roses, always his favourite.
One special rose takes pride of place,
Peace
On a slow, sunny Sunday,
Sat in his upturned wheelbarrow,
Ploughed field of a wrinkled face
Set off by twinkling blue eyes above,
Bright as flares on a starlit night.
Woodbine entrenched in the corner of his mouth.
“when Lieutenant Smithies arrived, new to the front,
He hadn’t seen the neat lines of men
Mown down by machine gun.
He paraded on the fire step to show he had no fear,
Top of his bloody head blown apart in two minutes!”
The no-man’s land between us
Plays out a Christmas-truce football match.
I think it’s a draw.
Now he’s studying
Motorway traffic on the bridge.
“There’s been seventy four lorries this last hour alone,
That’s twenty more than yesterday,
You’d think there was a big push on.”
The blue stars turn to a piercing storm,
“Did you buy that motorbike,
Despite what I said?
Bloody dangerous things,
Kill you as soon as look at you.”
“Yes, I did.”
He sighs
“Well, I’d better get you some proper boots,
No grandson of mine
Is going to moan about
Trench foot from riding his bike.
Now, have I got to watch that
Bloody rugby today?
You know very well it’s
Wrestling on a Saturday afternoon.
What’s that Grammar School taught you?
What’s wrong with football?
If you think I’m putting up with this
Four times a year
You’ve got another think coming.”
Hostilities break out again,
An echo of his life some fifty years before.
Except these are gentle, loving skirmishes.
© Ray Stearn 2nd October 2009, revised 5th November 2015
