By: Patrick

Walking back to my car,
And suddenly the present, uninvited, emerges.
It’s a cloudless, sunny day.
I take in the birds, the cars,
The voices of a couple of neighbours
On the other side of the road.
Autumnal colours
And all that stuff
That poets manage to capture so elegantly:
A tree that looks like a brocolli,
Leaves red as badly dyed hair.
It’s so simple,
Yet at this moment so miraculous.
I feel at peace,
Caught off guard.

By: Patrick

Today
My world drags
Like a bad movie.
I stare at the murky surface of a cup of green tea
For minutes on end,
Without a thought in my mind.
Yesterdays confuse and amuse.

Today
Is about being slow,
Above all about being slow.
Silence, time, solitude,
All seem eternal,
Like the humming of a fridge.
There is no one else.
Solus ipse est.

These days are my salvation.

By: Lydia Crow

Originally written for: 2011 Trees for Life Charity Exhibition.

I saw it once, a fleeting glimpse,
With my dreaming eyes;
Its slender branches beckoning,
Reaching for the skies.
I stood there in the flickering dusk,
The tree alone shone bright,
And I felt the glow of its thin, glass limbs;
Struck speechless by the sight.

A moment did I pause there
Before my dream moved on,
But since then I’ve been travelling
To find where I belong;
To find that iridescent tree,
Wherever it may grow,
To fathom every mystery,
To understand and know.

After nine long years I met a man,
We shared a drink or three,
And he told me of the days and nights
He’d spent beneath the tree.
He spoke of thought and memory,
Of the future and the past,
And of the knowledge for which he’d fought
Beneath those boughs of glass.

It’s been many, many years now
Since that vision came to me,
Since I first began my journey
To find that crystal tree;
Since I gave up my life and home
To find that pure release,
And stand again beneath those leaves
In awe, respect and peace.

I know now I will never find
That tree whilst I still live,
But still I’ll keep on searching
Until I have nothing left to give.
But when my weary body tires
Please cross this world of weeds,
And bury me beneath the glass
With a pocketful of seeds.

By: Lydia Crow

Originally written for: 2011 Trees for Life Charity Exhibition.

Whish, whish, Embla, Embla,
Echo in the night.
Màthair, màthair, whaa, whaa,
Shades of dark and light.
Thalla whither, thalla whither,
Whisper loud and long.
Tawasentha, Tawasentha,
Sing the spirits’ song.

By: Lydia Crow

Originally written for: 2011 Trees for Life Charity Exhibition.

With skin so soft beneath the bark
And resin coated hair,
The freshest sap runs through her veins;
She is always there.

Never sleeping, ever true,
She answers every call
As, one eye hazel, one eye green,
She watches over all.

When winter storms are raging
Or the night seems far too long,
She suffers on amidst the gales,
Resolute and strong.

And in the spring of morning,
When all is calm once more,
She will still be standing there,
Steadfast as before.

For whether auburn, scarlet, burnished gold,
Pale green or richest lime,
This mother of the forest waits
Until the end of time.

By: Lydia Crow

I don’t tell people
now.

It’s not that I want to hear
the sick jokes,
but I hate the embarrassed
sideways look
when someone remembers you.

They don’t know you,
they only know
the scar you left.
Their cautious pity
tears my skin as you did.

I keep it hidden now,
my scar.

It is not shame
I feel.
I just refuse
to live as your victim
throughout my life.

You made me stronger.
I will never thank you,
but I can walk where
others dare not tread. They flinch
where I walk unfazed.

It is my strength,
my scar.

You will have
nothing.
No part of it. You are
nothing.

My personal triumph,
my scar.

I don’t tell people.
Not any more.

By:  Dr E.W. Gordon

The padding was thick
As he pulled his arms through, the straps were reassuringly snug
Rippling his fingers, he felt the armour as it hugged every sinew
He had a great sense of occasion, everything matched as piece by piece he was suited
With each click he was fastened in
Little by little he prepared to advance
Boots followed legs
Gloves followed boots
Until only the helmet remained
Ornately decorated it slipped on and effortlessly fastened
Pulling down his visor
He looks back at is squire, tilting his head
Steps up to his steed
Swings his leg over and

Thumbs the starter

By: Hugin

The first fall of snowflakes in Winter,
The soft warmth of the Summer sun,
The first fruit to be picked in Autumn,
The cobweb perfectly spun.

The skipping firstborn lamb of the Spring,
The first carol at Christmastide,
The first note of a bird’s sweet love song,
Winter’s first Snowdrop espied.

The first baby bird to greet the morn,
The first leaf to turn red and gold,
The first deep pink rose of the Summer,
The power of Winter’s hold.

The first crowing of the cock at dawn,
The rising of the silver moon,
The dancing, twinkling stars at midnight,
The powerful sun at noon.

These are some of the things to look for,
When life’s troubles seem not to cease,
Because they are the ingredients
Of a recipe for peace.

By: Lydia Crow

The ice is melting.
Still bitter-cold, but to me
It is pure and fresh.