Tag Archives: feelings

redcurrants

redcurrants.jpg Monsieur Proust had his madeleine, I have my summer berries…

Loved my Sunday yesterday. Ingirid invited a small paty of us to play with her in her garden. She is at the helm of a magical eden where everything seems to grow in both open air and in polytunnels… Just magic. A list of tasks were clearly scribbled on postcards. Ingirid pointed out two areas: peaches to be harvested from well established trees in one polycrub, and, that secluded corner where gooseberries, black and redcurrants ripen in the sun. So much flew back inside my poet’s mind. Whilst the first task was achieved at lightning speed, that latter harvest heaved a bowlful of those tiny summer gems, as well as poetics.

As in micropoetry form at first…

 

Les groseilles

petits fruits rouges, en grapes, en vrac,

entre martinets et sourires,

là où le temps

tournait

en

rond.

Redcurrants

Peerie red fruits clinging like grapes

in between swifts & smiles,

there, when time

locked in a

circle.

and then, as a poem,

 

Redcurrants

 

You, scarlet gems so well hidden.

So delicate, in

one corner of a garden, where my hands search in between

leaves, guardians of time – where

time writes fate in

chlorophyll…

I still

remember when

I first found you as a child,

crouched against earth and loneliness,

that thin mesh, invisible cage to let the sun work

miracles after each battering of rain.

You, tiny gems so well

hidden, you

are

precious stones of summer.

 

NH 2017

 

Later, a feast awaited us as we gathered in the garden to share a marvellous Sunday afternoon. I love gardening parties. So much to enjoy from such capsules of time.

Thank you, Ingirid 🙂 

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Hiroshima

No siren or red flag,

high from blue sky without warning.

I should have read each 

little sign, but

June began

bright, so

hazy – 

bluebells 

untouched in the garden,

air filled with 

     song from summer birds –

curlews, skylarks and

                        bold blackbirds.

In between Lino and floorboards,

our frantic feet would

slide through time;

and imagined 

                yours on tarmac about to

                       to leap out through

             thick clouds.

High from

blue sky without 

warning,

one 

     single ring,

                your frantic voice,

                      shaped one single cloud

champignon,

          and felt that bright light,

                       blasted heart –

one final blow without 

warning. 

Nat Hall 2017

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