England

May Day, prepare for morris dancers,
bearded men and women (beardless)
armed with tankards, sticks and hankies,
legs adorned with chiming bells.

Here comes the Fool, their ball spinning
around their head before they strike
a member of the public un-
awares. Result? A raucous riot.

And then the Squire, the headman of
this rustic troop, who seeks to steer
them through their ancient dance that streams
throughout Old England’s leafy years.

It is no Riverdance or gold
Bolero, there’s no Nureyev
nor Sleep in sight, it’s out of date,
a clumsy, awkward, fading light.

Yet in the laughter lies an anchor,
in ritual, hazel arms that reach
to hazy days of yesteryear
and Albion’s soul and beating heart.

Our country is full of strange traditions that somehow linger on despite changing culture and lives. Their charm lies, perhaps, in a sense that they tie us to something that our modern lives have lost.
(01.05.26)

The English spring, there is no greater joy!
The rising of the sun from its long sleep,
As garden birds full-throated song deploy
And glorious colour from undercover peeks.
Bodies relax, no longer stiff from cold,
Emotions thaw, our smiles at last return,
And up above the new-born leaves unfold
As from their time-shares swallows now adjourn.
Immediately our backs are shorn of shirts,
The annual quest for tans begins apace.
We know the fickle sun will soon desert us
And new found skin tone quickly start to fade.
Today the skies are blue, tomorrow grey,
Look storm clouds are already on their way.

There’s nothing more predictable then the English spring! It’s been a lovely day today, but who believes that this will last….
(24.02.26)

Ode for the Day

An experiment in poetic doodling

Poem 868 – Albion’s Soul

Poem 803 – The English Spring