Birds

With head of brilliant blue

And composition bright and fair,

The fairy wren with jaunty flit

Hops and bounces through the air.

With head of brightest red

And flight of speed and swerve

The rosella glides on brilliant wings

In dipping, parabolic curve.

In his suit of black and white

And rising heavily from the ground,

The magpie flies with a swish

Of muscular, purposeful sound.

His song is a monotonous caw,

His feathers are dull and black,

But the crow still rises into the air

In slow, direct and functional flap.

O some pour forth liquid song,

Some have plumage bright,

Some do flit and some do soar,

Some are blessed with speed of flight.

Crow, wren or hawk, I love them all,

So I raise my head to stare

In silent praise and wonderment

As they slip and glide through the silken air.

Into the Light

Feelings run like water from my mind.

I try to catch them as they stream

And pin them permanently to the page

But they, elusive as a dream,

Slip away and run down cracks

And scorn attempts to bring them back.

Others stand dumbly at heart’s door

Lacking the words to give them voice.

Existing as things dimly sensed or felt

They can neither cry, laugh, nor rejoice,

An impotent, half sensed longing ache,

From the mind’s bars unable to escape.

If I could reach to where they dwell

And bring them out into the light,

Nurture and polish and shine them

Until they sparkle and are bright,

Then could those words dance and sing

Of all the richness mortal life can bring?

Some voices indeed can do such things,

Like great  Keats on death, or Owen war;

Their voices soar in transcendent sound

With words of beauty to admire or adore.

Such voices are pure, deep and long

And with them they pour forth exultant song.

But I must sing in notes that I know,

And not strain recklessly beyond my range,

So I will tell of faith, love, joy and hope

In words that are simple, direct and plain,

And with pleasure sparkling and bright

I bring these songs out into the light.

A Dream

I dreamed a dream

That a great King ruled in justice and peace.

His reign was like soft showers that descend

Upon the cracked, parched and barren earth

And bright, new, green things sprung to birth.

Of that freshness and joy there was no end,

Nor did his righteousness ever cease.

I dreamed a dream

That his helpers, all dressed in shining white

And mounted on the wings of the wind,

Travelled in the splendour of the King’s name

And to the earth’s corners and isles did proclaim

A message of freedom to all mankind

And their work was peace and joyously bright.

I dreamed a dream

That poverty and inequality were swept away

Along with the oppressive grip of famine,

And degree by degree through his great will

All people had their needs happily fulfilled.

It was the King’s desire to determine

That this equality would always stay.

I dreamed a dream

That war was abolished by his decree

And weapons were beaten into farmer’s tools,

So that a mother’s tears would no longer pour

From the black billowing waste of war,

For peace was the characteristic of his rule

And it covered the earth as water the sea.

I dreamed a dream

That even the enemy death he defeated,

As well as the allies of sorrow, sighing and strife.

Tears were wiped from everyone’s eyes,

The water of life was given to the wise,

Who joyously embraced the gift of life

And in this conquest his work was completed.

I dreamed a dream,

I dreamed a dream,

I dreamed a dream.

Great Teachers

.

For Ron Smith and Joy Bevan, wonderful teachers.

“Great teachers make a difference”

Is a cliché but it’s also true

And I’ve been lucky in my life

For of great teachers I’ve had two.

There are many mediocre minds

In the world of education

Who labour and plod through the day

In drudgery, conflict and resignation.

How lucky then for me that I had two

Whose impression has never passed:

One was my guide through realms of gold;

The other led me into the distant past.

I’ve thought upon what made them great,

What characteristics they did share-

Intellect, knowledge and passion too,

But mostly it was that great word “care”.

They were as different as people could be

In their style, method and mind:

One was controlled, focussed and planned,

The other gentler, more warm and kind.

But these were only the surface things

Easily obvious to the eye.

It was the deeper things that lay beneath

That the superficial couldn’t belie.

What they taught was important to them

But so was the individual too;

It was that deep, personal approach

That most especially shone through.

They showed that care year by year

As students came and went.

Most like me turned and walked away

And never thought to turn back to give thanks.

I have long known the debt I owe

But sadly now one has died

And I have much regret that I never said

That in my heart her legacy abides.

But to the other I acknowledge my debt

For skills both unique and rare

And thank him with all of my heart

For his talent, commitment and care.

So whilst it might be a cliché to say

And abused by being too freely dispensed,

I will spread far and wide that I know

That great teachers do make a difference.

Haiku on Mother and Child at Piano.

Light spills through the room

Where Prue sits at piano,

Eleanor on lap.

As the fingers touch

In light skilful patterns

Chords fluidly flow.

The sweet sound is as

Liquid, clear and delicate

As running water.

The baby gurgles

Her new, innocent delight

And waves her small arms.

What greater beauty

Than Mother, baby, music

In this harmony.

Haiku on Home

The butcher bird pours

His liquid ripple of song

Into the blue sky.

From the stone bird bath

The rosella dips and drinks

In alert delight.

On the verandah

We sit in deep contentment.

I reach for your hand.