Poet, portrait artist, gardener, rambler, grandmother, I feel lucky to be living in a beautiful valley tucked away in the inspirational Cotswolds. I try to write poetry as often as I can, and publish it online.
Let’s light a candle
To those who went before,
Who broke new ground,
Who thought they knew better,
Until they came to realise the wisdom
Of those who came before.
Let’s say a prayer
For those who’re yet to come,
Who’ll break new ground,
Who’ll think they know better,
Until they come to realise the wisdom
Of those who came before.
Samhain Chain © Chris Auger 2019
April mist transforms the valley
From lush green cattle-grazed slopes
To an opaque wall of grey-white smoke.
Brief muffled sounds pierce the hush
Then float gently upwards, seeking the sky.
In the foreground,
Winter-bare trees stand sentinel
Holding back the mist.
Haibun © Chris Auger 2018
Over the length of many back-breaking, sun-baked days, the wild patch (infested with nettles, brambles, and convulvulus) is lifted, turned, searched for roots, stones and ancient buried treasures, enriched with leaf mould, and placed in planters ready for sowing. Each tract of soil an encapsulation of potential, a promise for the future.
Dark, crumbly tilth sits
Waiting to bring forth new life
Holding itself ready.
Turning the soil © Chris Auger 2018
Weak winter-slanted sunlight
On a frosty November morning
Picks out each striped field furrow
Every humped grass hussock
Throwing elongated shadows across the ground
So that giant trees, cows, birds
Inhabit an uneven monochrome landscape
Like an image by Dali.
Chris Auger © Winter Sunlight
I round a corner on the Bury
On a mid-week, mid-afternoon walk
And come across a pair of hunting kestrels
Hovering just above eye level, only metres away.
Silently held aloft on the breeze,
Each head completely fixed on a single point,
The wind ruffling their feathers as they dipped sideways
Following the course of the wind, or their prey.
I stand transfixed by their silent dance
Trying to make myself just as motionless
Until as one they abandon their search
And with their departure I take my chance to slip away.
Further along I hear the distinctive song of skylarks
Floating towards me on the breeze,
Rippling through the air like water in a fountain.
A magical sound, immediately recognisable.
I scan the sky, looking for the tiny birds
But they give no sign of where they might be,
Their voices getting quieter, luring me after them
Away from their nest, hidden in the grass.
How wonderful, first the sight then the sound
Of these two very different species of bird,
One seen and not heard,
One heard but not seen.
Sound and Vision © Chris Auger