Tuesday, 22 January 2013

The Flood

THE FLOOD (Hunstanton) Wendy Webb

Snug as a bug in a sleeping bag
I drifted to the Land of Nod and back,
my perfect room in miniature,
and drifting in and out of sleep
the seeping, rising tide of voices raised.

It was dark outside.
Clattering of canvas frames
and mud and flood and panicked dreams.
I woke to the world, a lake.

My snug bug sleeping bag was packed away.
Dad and brother flapped with cold
around my sleeping room, a sidecar seat.

Rumbling into sudden life – away.
Camping gear packed damp above the flood,
flowing across our groundsheet camping site.
No-one else was dry; paddling in the night
beside a sea, a chilly East Coast sea.

Our bones shaken minimally warm,
brother riding pillion,
we scoured the promenade for mugs of tea.
A seafront café welcomed travellers, slightly damp,
skipping to the flash of fate in flood.

Dad saw her first, playing with the flowing tide:
a solitary female form, strangely shadowing a causeway wall.
We paused and paused
- wondered who would paddle into dawn?
There she was again,
same shape too deep for youthful seaside eyes to understand.

I wonder still about her tide,
our flood:
whether life was ebbing out to sea for one last time.

Thursday, 3 January 2013

Sandringham Flower Show


I could say nothing about Norfolk
or flowers
or crowds
but stand and stare at such a pack of cars
falling in line to show that Norfolk blooms
like everywhere or nowhere
except this Norfolk, this Little England
where Charles and Camilla ride past, tangibly beaming,
where crowds cheer
where the church, the house, the museum
familiar as TV, horse-drawn carriages
or the history of the motor car
in this royal seat, this ancient house
this orb within a sceptred isle.

Yet this garden packs nothing but flowers
gently lending the finest view of reflected light and air
housing the finest pack of chimneys
falling in line to nature’s best.

Tuesday, 16 October 2012

Buzzing Dreams


Read me a book to help me sleep
and reach into the honeypot of night,
dip my sweet finger to the task,
until I ask no more before the night.
Trace round the sweetness of my mouth,
arousing dreams of bees and nectar flowers.

Read softly to my buzzing hive,
as strays arrive, to settle cool at night.
Dim in the evening light, I slow,
so anger slumbers deeper in the night.
Grace beeswax round my honeycomb,
then shades will roam around a storybook.

Read, late and early, as I drift
within those shifting phantoms of the night.
Dream petals to my fingertips
and sipping cups in luminous tanned night.
Erase dull hips and bloated seeds
and read my peaceful sleep in candlewax.

Tuesday, 28 August 2012

Righto, it won't let me upload pics now! Groan. No idea what setting is wrong...

Wednesday, 25 April 2012

Rainbow near Lavenham.

Tuesday, 17 January 2012

At Horsey Mere

ECHOTAIN (At Horsey Mere)  Wendy Webb

 Merely shaping favoured Guinevere
to Horsey’s Camelot-tales of womanhood:
no time to canter among the reeds
in rising heat of summer’s height,
seeking hides and spying birds.
When this bird side-saddles a feminine mount,
armoured in outsize lifejacket,
gently rocked by breezing mere…
a sailor rocks and lance-rows manhood,
charges across to gentler reeds and sun, beating sun
on golden hair, cheeks flushed with pregnancy.
Whinnied satisfaction, eight-months’ ripe like handkerchief
speared, labouring not a muscle in the midwife of a hull
to consummate eyes of love.
Golden fulfilment of Horsey Mere
rocking and rowing to a gallop
as the late sun cools
to skittish breeze, worrying foul-mood surface,
a mere hint of concern
whether oars could spur faster, fleeter,
slicing surf to stress swords’ homeward shore;
to moor along the creek of Horsey Windmill.
A picture postcard token scene
for tea or ice creams’ gentle drift
of muscles sheathed but wasted
like Lancelot’s gallantry.