and so we decide to really live





I have been working on my next collection of poems for some time, but the last few months have been affected by grief and loss, so this beautiful poem by Mary Oliver (in her book Dream Work) really resonated with me.


from The Fourth Sign of the Zodiac by Mary Oliver


I know, you never intended to be in this world.
But you’re in it all the same.

so why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.
There is so much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

Bless the feet that take you to and fro.
Bless the eyes and the listening ears.
Bless the tongue, the marvel of taste.
Bless touching.

You could live a hundred years, it’s happened.
Or not.
I am speaking from the fortunate platform
of many years,
none of which, I think, I ever wasted.
Do you need a prod?
Do you need a little darkness to get you going?
Let me be urgent as a knife, then,
and remind you of Keats,
so single of purpose and thinking, for a while,
he had a lifetime.


photo Rose Cook

May days, moist and blooming




A Skip and a Hop: A Series of Walks




The wood grows kinder as we walk,

then noticing begins: bright leaf, a cobweb catches light.

The sun this time of year shines slant

down from the right, the columned trees

drawn straight with leaf-filled hollows,

then turn a bend to find one bush ablaze,

side lit, illuminated as by an angel.


Birds sing, twigs snap, cones tumble through.

Wrapped about by trees, walk on,

step over roots, breathe wooded air,

until the furrowed field, with its beech spinney full of gold.




To walk beside a small girl who is happy

is a joy, how she dances – skip, hop, bound.

I wonder when we began not to skip?

There she goes – high step, half step, skip.




The great thing about a labyrinth is,

it’s not a puzzle or a tricky path at all,

but a single quiet path, in and out,

a labyrinth is where one can be found.

No shortcuts, but to enjoy the sacred walk.


I walk out on each full moon, for a year,

walking, taking photographs, getting lost,

these take the form of pilgrimages as a vow

to keep the connection through observations.


Walking forward becomes linked to trust,

returning again to the fall of breath.

It is the breath alone that signals hope,

that life is here, continuous.




After a long walk, feeling sad, return to find

someone has left a flower on the windscreen,

random kindness tucked there, the heart fills.

It takes little to change the movement of the tide.



photograph and poem Rose Cook

from Notes From A Bright Field – Rose Cook  available

To Wake Up In The Morning And Be Happy For No Reason At All




To Wake Up In The Morning And Be Happy For No Reason At All


There’s a kind of dripping thing

called love. I find I have done

everything to avoid it,

but let there be love as sturdy

as a white enamel bin filled with bread,

something used absolutely every day,

the kitchen table, teapot, kettle.


Let it be as sacred as a cellar door,

sideways as scullery.

liminal as doorstep,

wide as wind in the trees,

as ruby rich and spreading

as the copper beech outside.


Let it be ours, fierce in its telling,

soft in its showing

appreciated for its very existence

for here, this is heart.



photo and poem Rose Cook

Rose Cook – four poems

Originally posted on Clear Poetry:

Woman and Alsatian
from a photograph by Keith Arnatt

She seems just about to move
having agreed,
one hand comforts the dog,
buried into the fur behind his ears,
but he doesn’t like my camera.

I saw them from across the street
and followed, attracted by
the slick pvc of her coat,
which gave her a beatnik look,
though practical too, I can see that.

Her dog lollops on oversized feet.
He will grow quickly,
they already work as a team.
What’s his name?
I position them by a blank wall.

Look at me. They are both unsure.
She wonders why I am interested in her –
ordinary, out for a walk, hair a mess.
She half smiles, tense. His name is Timber.
The dog barks.


The man on the train is on his phone,
telling someone that he needs help.
And I thought of you.

He has found…

View original 268 more words

spring equinox – solar eclipse – super moon day

The Real Work by Wendell Berry

It may be that when we no longer know what to do
we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go
we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.



photo Rose Cook