Spring | Summer | Autumn | Winter
Two readings of a set of seasonal rounds – in response to an exercise at the Beadnell Writers’ workshop at Brunswick Methodist Church in Newcastle, February 2016.
Numb and weary from the air journeying
They rest their needle bones in exposed places
There is no space, no silence, no stillness –
All is movement. But soon the talk will be of love,
And silent births prepare for next year’s throng.
My skin crisps like batter in the the salty air
I’m hungry for adventure as sea laps my lips
And sand like sugar sticks to hips.
We’re all burning, honey, in this summer hell.
It’s hard to know the season in this barren landscape.
Behind, the prints I made, ahead, waiting to be formed by weight
The year grows heavier, carrying night in its belly
But determined to hold light for as long as it can.
Skeletons of cow parsley stark against ruined castle
The tang of woodsmoke in the air, a raucous tide against the castle cliff
As bats escape for their evening feast
A ghost of cow parsley shakes its fist