POETRY

A selection of my poems for SEPTEMBER

Towan from stubble field. - Ben Taffinger (1981 - ) Roseland, Cornwall

SIGN OF THE TIMES

That green fuse that drove the flower is fading —

torrential rain and thunder mark the change —

friction, on the borders between seasons,

with Summer’s power coming to an end.

Even though the sun returns to warm us,

already some green trees are showing gold;

berries start to ripen in the hedgerows

and days count down on cuckoo pint’s red beads.

Stubble fields are ploughed, last poppies waning,

on cottage wall the last flush of the rose;

Summer’s birds are gathering to leave us —

how is it that they know when seasons change?

SUNFLOWER

Down at the pub, the rumours had soon spread :

our local farmer’s selling off his land.

When goat-man left and pheasant farm shut down,

we realised there was truth in what was said.

Soon, other tenants left their grazing land —

moved horses on, their meadows left to weeds,

rusty with ragwort, pastures overgrown —

a change the roaming deer can’t understand.

Birds leave the hedgerows, rabbits on the run

as men and their machines rip up the land;

at the site entrance they erect a sign :

Building Communities For Everyone…

But not for hawthorn, fox, orchid or deer —

those residents have gone, their fields stripped bare.

On this sterile plane earth’s heaped in piles,

nothing’s left alive on the levels here.

Pipes and bricks arrive all Summer long

but, while the men were busy on the site,

Nature crept back to green those heaps of soil

and, on the highest, planted something strong.

Unnoticed, this plant grew more each day

till giant golden face turned to the sun.

This was Nature’s turn, a defiant sign —

two fingers to those stealing land away.

BRAMLEY

This old, mossed, Bramley apple tree,

planted in Victorian times,

has served our kitchen very well —

apples for savouries, puddings and pies.

Aged tree, a garden feature still,

became safe harbour for young kids

as castle and as pirate ship —

a branch bears scars where rope swing gripped.

Beneath that branch, an antique plough,

restored, reminder of the past;

where chickens pecked long years ago,

first snowdrops now surround gnarled bark.

Months later, apple blossom falls —

confetti on a new mown lawn.

Next bluetits hunt among the leaves

for food to feed their hungry brood.

When fledglings fly, June apples drop —

the tree reducing heavy crop —

but there will be another fall

when pecking starlings come to call.

The sloping trunk gives tree its shape,

a magnet for our running cat

who, at full tilt, bounds up the trunk

to finish on the top most branch.

Windfalls attract the drunken wasps —

those harbingers of harvest time;

as curling leaves begin to fall

apples are gathered, boxed and stored.

The evenings cool as they draw in,

reaching the cusp of season’s change —

the old tree’s branches reach for sky,

caught in its arms, bright Harvest moon.

HAWK

From our bedroom, I heard your breathless call :

“A sparrowhawk! Come quietly, be quick!”

Halting, short of the glass, I slowly inched

to where we both could watch the visitor –

like Alfred’s “…nature, red in tooth and claw.”

Just yards from where we stood she slowly fed :

the ornamental driftwood was her perch

and butcher’s block – grey wood now tinged with red.

And all the time she fed she looked around –

more cautious than the birds she terrorised –

fixing our window with her yellow stare,

pausing, head cocked, aware of every sound.

Then, startled into nervy flight, she fled

across the lawn towards a blood-red sun,

her gory talons grasping her ripped prey.

Behind she left a puff of wind-blown down,

torn feathers and, to mark her mid-air kill,

a smear of bird lime stains the pristine drive…

The friendly, fearless robin’s voice is stilled.

THE LAST TIME

Then, every year it was the same,

we'd wait to watch the geese return.

Just as the sun began to set,

we'd hear them from our cottage door,

honking and calling as they passed.

Somehow they knew when to arrive…

with harvest in and combine gone,

in twos and threes, then Vs and skeins

they'd circle round fresh stubbled field

that filled the top of Cabbage Hill —

dark silhouettes against red sky,

landing in tens beyond Long Copse.

Their congress lasted for a week

with trips to feeding grounds each day

and loud reunions at night.

Then they were gone, leaving the hill

as suddenly as when they came,

to over-winter miles away.

When, late that year, the land was sold,

men with hard hats and plans moved in,

soon diggers made the good earth fly.

“Creating new communities —

A family countryside retreat”…

But not a place to welcome geese.

SOON

As evenings shorten,

light's orange glow

glints from the eyes

of tall buildings.

Swallows gather,

dark beads restrung —

looped above roads,

their twitterings

reproach the setting sun.

We will go soon,

we will go soon —

and I, whose infancy

was sun and flowers,

watch like a child

surprised by adult grief,

confused by sudden tears —

left with enduring sadness.