Geese appear high over us,

pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,

as in love or sleep, holds

them to their way, clear

in the ancient faith: what we need

is here. And we pray, not

for new earth or heaven, but to be

quiet in heart, and in eye,

clear. What we need is here.

by Wendell Berry

Everyday Festival Notice

the festival of street people walking

the festival of café people talking

the festival of bears, all kinds

the festival of waiting, a quieter pace

of clock watching, tick tock, leg shifting

the festival of sighs, all around

the festival of feet, of shoes

the festival of beaks and paws

the festival of wings and berries

festival of reflections, windows, water,

of horizons, chimneys, roof-life

the festival of trees, of leaves

of small blades of grass

of glints in eyes

Blue Walnut Cafe
Walnut Road,
Torquay,
Devon TQ2 6HS

The air anticipates change,

sudden heavy rain, monsoon

drops big as stones,

you can follow them down.

The shift begins towards Fall,

blackbirds feed on rowan berries

cattle eat wet grass.

We feel the chill,

begin to wear coats,

clouds part to let colder

sun through, then close.

A flick of the light switch.

We find the flow, pick ripe apples,

join a lantern walk at night,

note the full moon over us,

await season’s turn.

Blackbird in the Night

It still felt like night

the blackbird’s first song around four

his relaxed crooning up the garden

easing his family awake

and me too, with a whole world

full of light, open, clean, like a page

me lying in the shadowed room

the dawn bird out on the cool tree.

Meditating On Cows

There are cows filling the road.

Black and white;

faltering past with their kind faces

their ears that loop

their great slack bodies, mud splashed,

implacable as sideboards.

A face looms in the window

wet nosed, drips from one nostril.

Her eyes shine blackly, seem to see and not see.

Her shoulder bulk knocks the wing mirror.

She startles and begins to run, sliding slightly,

uncomfortable just as my mother used to be

when she ran in slippered feet down the street.

Ahead the road is still full.

Here one is more curious. She stops to lick the door

and stares a second before others hurry her on.

They slop by, silent but for their feet,

some dignity in their quiet obedience

until the last walks by, flanked by the cowman,

who, relaxed and whistling, ties up the gate.

Rose Cook

black etch feather on the side of the hill.

Almost-spring air blows around almost-buds,

when I close my eyes there’s a rhythm in me,

a rock-a bye-baby breathe rhythm.

The wood pigeon pair search for scraps,

one flew with a twig just now,

in time, two white eggs will lie secret.

It is all just beginning -

the land quickens and tree clocks wake.

on the hillside

the paths

sheep have made

down the steep slope

look like

the veins of a leaf

in the frozen garden

first snowdrops shake

pale joy

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It is February and Rose will be reading at The Ariel Centre Gallery, Totnes on Saturday 12th Feb from 2pm as part of Marking The Land – photography by Michael Carter, music by Sam Richards and poetry by Weir Poets.

Also on Saturday 26th Feb at 7.30pm at the Exeter Phoenix as part of the Excite platform.

smeared orange and charcoal

which lightens as it opens.

Dark shapes say the birds feel it

stretch their wings to shake off sleep.

I think I hear a slow beat.

All colour returns to our world.

It hums hope

remembers nothing

dreams only of itself.

We may lose it if we slice it fine

not seeing its chances. Unafraid

of our slicing, it trusts us with its gift.

She asked: What is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?