Stirring Stuff

My spoon is rather…


How can I


The pleasure it brings

To the touch –



I cannot resist


That silken curve

Down my jawline –

Itself, admittedly,

Not as smooth

Nor as firm

As once it was

But still able

To luxuriate

In the


Of this miraculous piece

Of Spoon-Smith’s


Hard to resist

Once the initial


Has been made.

Then back to

My thumb


The barely

Hollowed wood…

Hallowed wood

A feast for

All the senses;

My eyes follow

The richly diverse

Tones of the grain

Which seems to


The silken tresses

Of an expensively

High-lighted head;

I close my eyes

And inhale

The distinctively

Subtle scent

Of the

Tung Oil-moisturised

Skin –

Ah… stirred by a

Wooden spoon!

wooden spoon 20150127_192731_resized

In the thick of it

Like an Isle of Wight version of the sword in the stone, my garden contains a chisel in the tree trunk. However much we try to release it, it won’t budge. Maybe we need a person of royal potential to come and release it for us…

Gone but not Forgotten

That’s the last substantial tree gone then. My newish neighbour hates trees. Thinks they are going to fall on her so told me of her plan to uproot everything along our boundary. Previously a nice secluded, if a little wild, place to relax and enjoy some privacy in our garden – now completely open to be overlooked from her back lawn (can’t call it a garden) and the street beyond.
I wonder where the little inquisitive robin will nest this year…


Silver Ghost

And so the tree, which has stood its ground
Since Queen Victoria was standing hers,
Which has seen seasons come and go;
Breathing the smoky aroma of things
Long dead in the air all around,
Has finally sighed its last and bowed
Too far to the night-time howl…one final
Groan then sinking to the earth to sleep
The sleep of Nature’s innocent.

The house hadn’t existed when our friend
Was planted these many moonshines ago.
Its collapse surprisingly hindered by
Bricks and mortar; clay, wood and stone. As birds
In its branches, wingless the inhabitants peer through –
Wondering what guardian angel must
Have been watching over them this first hour
Of Christmas Eve. All should have been crushed to dust,
Splintered like that tree which will no more
Look through into the windows of their lives.

Fortune indeed smiled, on some, that night.

Dance of Nature

(photo credit:

Russet attired dancers line garden walls,
The base of the hedgerows; they wait their turn,
Skirts gently fluttering. First one side then
The other take a twirl in the centre
Before spinning together – a rustic
Version of ‘Strip the Willow’…strip the oak,
Stripped is the ash.
Their overcoats have been shed to adorn
Another day,
Another place.
Rather beautiful this dance of nature.

Nature’s staircase

Nature’s staircase winds its way through the wood of pines and carpet of delicately-belled heather. We climb and marvel at the grasping tree roots that reach out through the sandy soil like the exposed veins of Methuselah. Further up we trudge; sliding a little now that the trees have given way to the shingle underneath. We reach the top of Dead Man’s Peak and survey the kingdom that we have won through our heart-pumping assent. Beautiful English countryside; heath and forest, new but old, ancient land and there in the distance a reminder – a manmade scar on the face of this beauty…


This year the laurel seems different somehow – less involved with the task of providing a resting place for others. The worn, bare earth underneath the lowest branches is unoccupied but the imprint of where a small body would lay still bears the hallmarks of his occupation. Last year I tussled with the bindweed that threatened to strangle the life out of the beautiful tree. Now I pull what seems like acres and acres of brown, dried up cords. No more will its trumpets herald a triumphant cry but instead they have fallen, withered into silence by this unyielding sentinel.

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