Writing

Poems by Ruth Gilchrist

Unfortunately due to AI I can not put my poems on here, the few that do appear are quite old and online before things went a little mean. The best way to support writers is to purchase magazine and anthology in which they appear, seek out and purchase any pamphlets and collections they publish.

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.

The Telling

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 game

this to and fro

the testing

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

the lies

and the river would not

remember,

only you and I would have this game

and its end,

just you and I

this game.

Wayward

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.