Poems by Ruth Gilchrist
I’ve put together a carefully curated selection of my latest and most influential pieces. Read through the samples below and feel free to get in touch to learn more about me and to discuss any projects you may want to send my way.
Country Lane by Woodland
My thoughts are autumn sparks
wind taken and tumbled
half decayed; still an opportunity of colour
and you sit quietly like the lane.
My voice is winter clipped
a storm too short to name or
a sigh tethered in the grey
and you listen, quietly like the lane.
My health like spring is unpredictable,
quick then slow running streams
limbs that bend and whip
and you watch quietly like the lane.
My love is all summer
all mayfly miasma and scented blooms
sudden downpours, sun glazed pools
and you are quiet like the lane.
You, like the lane.
I could take this fly you cast
take it here in the softness of my mouth
let the hook pierce just behind the lip.
Down the line you’d feel my shudder
and your heart would quicken as we start
this to and fro
We could meet somewhere between deep pool and
river bank, we could dance water into air, conjure a rainbow,
affront the silence, tear the mist, shed scales and sweat, play out this game.
But to what end
this to and fro
this you and I?
To tales we could both tell of how one played the other
of the bright sun and the orchestra.
And no one would know
and the river would not
only you and I would have this game
and its end,
just you and I
ears are unconscious to the remonstrations of fairies
when full of the tang of stars bursting.
eyes blanked to waring legions
when chocked with cannon balls of flavour.
I am witch for these,
slayer of bind weed,
destroyer of nettle,
keeper of their understory.
in blood red form
these are worth more than a king’s ransom to me,
more than a child’s silence or a lover’s favour,
these are jewels beyond the taste of rainbow.
I do not feed, water or propagate,
they grow as they will,
rooting in the cracks
stitching the edge of borders
hiding or blatant, they have no rule
thin soil or deep, capricious, inconsistent,
they take what they need and give only flowers
There will be no preserving, no hording
there is no time like now
I spy, I pluck, I devour.
these are the little things in life
these are Wild Strawberries.