Bog Wood

A seed. Long dormant. Lovingly laquered, cradled womb-like by gentle turf. For many generations. By some fair chance comes an unearthing: A keen eye fashions wings from time-frozen knots. Carves a thrusting neck and beak. Unleashes a Phoenix, now poised mid-arc, Or bursting from beneath the fish- harbouring waves. From this crucible centuries long, Soars…

Samson

The guard palmed him something as he stepped down to the melting  asphalt. Apart from the firm handshake, all he’d said was ‘Go to The Owl. You look like a goddam bum’, before stepping back up in to the bus. Any passers by would have seen a very tall, sun-marked man in a suit three sizes…

Angels wear Pantone Blue. A prayer of thanks for the NHS.

Now the world is full of fear, most folk don’t know what to do. Yet saving us are Angels, and they are wearing Pantone blue.   Their halos may be visors The only wings they have tattoos, but what they do is sacred, clothed in Pantone blue.   They may not be a choir or…

Distance Yearning

Strange, this social isolation. Out and about, everybody at duelling distance. Reading each other’s eyes. Smiles perhaps, but closed-mouthed or masked. There is the quick glance. Working out sneeze and cough geometry. No kissing, nor palm to palm tenderness. Kissing gates are redundant. Home a sanctuary. No vapour trails, but Skies busy with birds.

Touch (some thoughts when you can’t touch anybody)

It is natural to greet From a seat, or your feet; wherever your winding way lands. A hand to a shoulder Round a waistline (if bolder), or just with the pressing of hands. For the Welsh its a Cwtch, The Red Rose a thrutch, A high-five in South Kernow sands. When you self-isolate, Wave, watch…

Self-Isolation Homesick Blues

It’s all a bit odd, this. I’m housebound. Virus found. Confined below decks. I’m careful not to touch anything. Even my own things. A burglar hiding in bed. Leaving no trace. A somewhat unwelcome guest in my own house. The Covid cuckoo. Still, its not all bad. There’s a world outside this window. I’ve a…

Writing Shed

Peering in all foggy-paned. Cliff-clung views through ropey curtains in proud company; faces peering back so faded by this bright light sun. thinking only: he sat here.   Tom Fieldhouse 2020

Tempest Stones

Tempest Stones Ocean Bones Strewn upon the shore. One smooth as glass, Another grain-packed, A third translucent as melting butter. Now basking palm-polished So far from the surf.   Tom Fieldhouse, 09/02/2020

Borders

The curved earth Seen from a hawk’s eye: Fields farms and forms, Yet no more or less than lichen.

Visitor

An unbidden messenger, it left its marks. Creamy splodges on a book, along the window ledge. Dusty curved wingbeats frosted on to the glass. Then no trace Until morning- batting flutters from the wardrobe. Coal black, kohl black eyes peeping between stowed linen. A speckled dart. Feathers thrummed then a jack-knife dash through to early…

Restored

Mountains do extraordinary things to time. A day spent walking in to or over them can feel more like a week. Changing weather during a walk intensifies this, creating a surreal experience whereby surroundings look completely transformed.  Looking back now on a superb day spent walking Cadair Idris with my Dad, I almost have a…