Dorset Poems – Scrumping in a Hurricane

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So, here is another poem from our trip to Dorset, when we stayed in this beautiful, remote National Trust cottage.  Like most of the poems, the extraordinary weather plays a part.  This time, the powerful winds and sudden gusts of the remains of Hurricane Ophelia brought an end to the moral dither I was in about apples.

There were many glorious and very ancient apple trees, which presumably were owned by the National Trust, being on their land.  However, it was so remote down our lanes that it was hardly surprising that no-one was gathering them.  I could gather them. Whether or not I had a right to, I was unsure.   On the other hand, to let so much food go to waste is another kind of crime.  Food use versus property rights.  I knew what I thought of that particular tussle, but only acted when Ophelia swept along, and swept the fruit off the trees.

The apples really were delicious!

 

Scrumping in a hurricane

So, here are the old apple trees,
behind a wall of warm stone.
Their branches, their trunks,
are gnarley and twisted,
some drip grey with lichen,
all are heavy with fruit.

They belong to the old manor
where we stay,
a remnant of an ancient hamlet.
So, do they belong to us,
here as we are
for only a few days?

The smell drifts over the wall,
sweet, you can taste the juice
in your mouth.
The apples lie in red,
extravagant heaps in
the long grass.
No one comes to gather them.

And then, storm warnings shake
the branches,
and then, the skirts of the
hurricane brush the hillside,
and as the apples fall,
I go and gather them,
enough for us while we
are here,
and peel them as the
juice flows over my hands,
and cook them with the blackberries
that whip across the path

And eat.  What are they?
No varieties I know,
but they are good, so good,
and good the next day
in porridge,
and good the day after
cold, and purple,
and sweet.

 

 

Dorset Poems – St Gabriel’s Chapel, 1

 

We’ve come back from such a tranquil, peaceful break at a National Trust Holiday Cottage – this one was down a long lane which said “No Cars”, and then we turned off to an even smaller lane where the grass swished against our exhaust pipe.  It felt so safe and undisturbed. I felt myself calming as we slipped further away down these winding lanes. While we were there, we did a lot of walking.  Taking the car out was less attractive than just putting on boots and setting off. And while we were there, the remains of Hurricane Ophelia made her presence felt.

She did great damage in Ireland, but where we were, we felt the effects of a dramatic weather event, without the destructive force.  My notebook went with me as we walked, and I tried to record something of the landscape’s response to the storm.

 

 

St Gabriel’s Chapel

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Walks from the door.

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Seatown beach, with Golden Cap behind.  There is an excellent pub, The Anchor to refresh the weary walker! Portugese man of war jellyfish washed up on the beach.

We stayed near the ruined chapel of St Gabriel.  As I sat to write, my thoughts diverged down two paths.  As an experiment, I’m trying to explore both paths in poems, each path taking as it’s starting point the experience of sitting in the chapel as the wind blew.  This first poem follows a more direct path, the one we took over the cliffs back to another cottage where we had stayed as a family years ago, a place full of memory.  It was so good to retrace such freedom and laughter.  Next door Downhouse Farm runs a garden cafe with delicious food, and we enjoyed resting and recovering there, before turning back.  It was a long walk, taking in Golden Cap, the highest point on the south coast, and as we climbed and descended, the sky began to turn a strange red, as the dust that came before the storm filled the air.

 

 

St Gabriel’s Chapel, Dorset,
Storm Ophelia
1

From inside this small, stone chapel,
over broken walls
I can see the sea –
the wild white water crashing
into the cob at Lyme,
the many clouds moving fast,
as one, the sky sliding
against the earth
as leaves
scratch in corners,
tangle in hair.
Yesterday the trees held
more, far more,
when we walked seven
hard miles of cliffs
and troughs,
back to the place
we were
years ago, when
we were
all so much younger,
and we walked, and ran,
with Bessie the dog,
down, down to the sea.
We retraced those steps
more slowly, yesterday,
but look how far
we walked,
look how far
we have come.

 

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Thank you to Peter Skevington for the photographs.

The Little Christmas Tree – A good time to order!

I know, it’s still a long way off, Christmas.  I know, we don’t really want to get started yet.  Some shops, however, do seem to be trying to get us started, and October half term is the time when I try to begin thinking about mincemeat making, or some long term baking to be doused with brandy.

And yet, I notice that sales of my picture book, The Little Christmas Tree, are picking up, so some of you good people must be getting organised!  As of today, there are only three copies left on Amazon.

There are still copies available elsewhere – for instance through the publishers Lion, and other booksellers such as Waterstones.  So, if you were thinking of getting hold of a copy, now may not be too soon at all!
It is beautifully illustrated by Lorna Hussey, and the sparkly edition is a particular joy.  Here are some pictures to whet your appetite.

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Last year, I took the book to the fascinating Cribfest at St Mary’s Church, Grundisburgh.
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I hope you and the young children in your life enjoy it as much this year as you have in previous years.

Mud from Coleridge’s Garden

In honour of Coleridge’s birthday today!

Andrea Skevington

IMG_0721.JPGNational Trust place – Coleridge Cottage

IMG_0713.JPG The Ancient Mariner, at Watchet harbour, where the poem unfolded in Coleridge’s mind. The rope is particularly powerful.

On our Somerset holiday, we visited Coleridge Cottage.  I was not expecting to be so overcome by the place.  Each room was full of connections to his life and work.  Each room echoed with the poems – they flowed across the walls, they came out of the earphones by easy chairs, they whispered to me out of the leaves of books.  To be in the room where he wrote Frost at Midnight  and to sit in the Lime Tree Bower  were deeply moving experiences.  I still remember my marvelous English teacher, Miss Rowlat, talking to us about the Lyrical Ballads, with its paradigm shift of a Prologue, and then to be in the place where Coleridge and Wordsworth met and talked and where these…

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Poem – Cormorant

cormorant Graham Owen

Photo by Graham Owen

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The River Deben

 

I used to walk by our river most days, with a notebook. I don’t know why I fell out of the habit, as it was a good one, but this week, I knew I needed to begin again.
So I walked along the lane, along the quiet creek, towards the bench where I used to sit and write,  when, just behind me, my attention was caught by an ungainly black shape moving fast.
Startled, I felt the emotions I had been seeking to keep under the surface.
The experience reminded me of the last line of Seamus Heaney’s wonderful Postscript

“And catch the heart off guard and blow it open ”

Like the white swans in their wild landscape in Heaney’s sonnet,  this dark bird on my river was some kind of liberation, revelation.

So I sat down on the bench where I used to sit, and wrote this:

 

 

Cormorant

Why is it, this bright morning,
that the sudden sight
of the cormorant
coming to land on the water
takes me unawares,
startles me open?
The tattered black wings,
stretching back,
the rangy sticks of feet,
the head, sharp as a
stabbing sword.

It lands in a single
fluid act, graceful upon
the slippery shining water,
but for a moment
only,
and then the bird
pierces the brightness
with that fine head
and dives
down into
its darkness.

 

 

 

 

Spiders

 

 

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September – such a rich month.  You can feel the year turning. I love the golden light, and the fruit and berries everywhere.  I love the mornings when spider webs are strung with dew, and there is a nip in the air, waking you up.

Spiders – where are they, the rest of the year?
They seem to be everywhere now, including in the house.  I keep reminding myself of the sterling work they are doing eating the flies, which were bothering me last month….

This is a small poem about the ways of spiders, and the power of waiting.  At this time of year, so much slow ripening is coming to fruition.  I find I have forgotten I watched the bees on the raspberries and the apple trees, wondering what the harvest would be.  I have moved on, thinking of something else.

I forget that much I have wondered about, worried about, prayed about, has turned out all right, after all – not everything, but enough.  I am learning the patience of spiders.

 

 

Spiders – September

Now is the time of spiders –
their silver webs spun between
leaves, and twigs, and blades of grass.
Each one has its weaver,
resting its legs
on fine threads,
its many eyes watching.

For now, warm fat insects
drift dreamily on
the September breeze.

The hedges hang
with berries, I cannot
pick the plums fast enough,
first apples bend branches,
and beans lengthen on their vines.

I am learning the patience
of spiders.
It comes.  What you need
comes to you.  Gently,
when you have almost
forgotten that you ever asked,
or wanted, or longed for it –
here, and here, and here..

 

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I have this on my computer desktop. It helps me remember the power of patience endurance, of not giving up.

 

A parable for Earth Day

We are in the “Season of Creation” – a time when we remember the good gift of Earth, and our responsibilities for it. I am sharing this story with you again, as I refocus my thoughts and efforts on caring for our common home – and they do need to be refocused!

Andrea Skevington

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Today is Earth Day, when we remember the great gift and joy of our common home.  I am sharing with you again a story I wrote in response to the anger and grief I was feeling at the way we so often despoil and desecrate it, with no thought beyond our immediate gains.
The good news is that another way is possible, a way of gentleness, inventiveness, the pursuit of our mutual flourishing. The rapid growth of clean technologies, the identification of the benefits of being in a natural environment for body and mind and spirit alike, are just two ways in which this hope is coming to be realised.

However you are marking Earth Day, may it be a day of joy for all the good things we have received.

The parable of the good craftsman

Once there was a craftsman who had two children. As you might expect…

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Writing for Christmas in August – See, Amid the Winter’s Snow……

 

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Walter Launt Palmer

 

One of the strange and rather wonderful things about writing for a devotional publication like Quiet Spaces  is that you sometimes find yourself doing things at times that feel out of step with the world outside your window.  So, now, in August, I am thinking of the cold and dark of midwinter.  Today, it is very rainy indeed here in Suffolk, and not at all summery, which nearly fits…

I decided to base my meditations on the simple and profound carol, “See, Amid the Winter’s Snow”, by Edward Caswall.  I am finding it a very moving  process, and am looking forward to whatever will emerge from it.
If you feel like some unseasonal listening, you could try the following, which are currently playing on repeat in my house.

 

Sunday Retold – Transfiguration

Andrea Skevington

Part of the Sunday Retold series, following the readings may churches around the word use.  This week it’s
Luke 9:28-36

The Transfiguration

With relevant extracts from my Books.  I hope you enjoy.  Please feel free to use any of my material you find helpful, saying where it’s from.

matthew-spidersilk1 Photo – Matthew Ling

CHANGED BEFORE THEIR EYES (Mark 9:1-30)

Jesus led his disciples on from Caesarea Philippi towards higher ground. Jesus took Peter, James and John, and began to climb the steep slopes of a mountain that rose above the landscape.  Rocks slid under their feet as they walked under the bright, burning sun. At last they reached the top, and looked down on the outstretched wings of eagles riding the rising thermal currents.

And there, under the wide, open sky, Jesus was transformed before their eyes. He was shining, changed, his clothes dazzling white – brighter than pure untrodden…

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Sunday Retold – Transfiguration

Part of the Sunday Retold series, following the readings may churches around the word use.  This week it’s
Luke 9:28-36

The Transfiguration

With relevant extracts from my Books.  I hope you enjoy.  Please feel free to use any of my material you find helpful, saying where it’s from.

matthew-spidersilk1

Photo – Matthew Ling

CHANGED BEFORE THEIR EYES (Mark 9:1-30)

Jesus led his disciples on from Caesarea Philippi towards higher ground. Jesus took Peter, James and John, and began to climb the steep slopes of a mountain that rose above the landscape.  Rocks slid under their feet as they walked under the bright, burning sun. At last they reached the top, and looked down on the outstretched wings of eagles riding the rising thermal currents.

And there, under the wide, open sky, Jesus was transformed before their eyes. He was shining, changed, his clothes dazzling white – brighter than pure untrodden mountain snow. Then, the disciples saw two figures join Jesus – Moses, the law-giver, and Elijah, the prophet. And there, on that high mountain, they talked together.
Peter, James and John watched wide-eyed until Peter said “Rabbi, Teacher, it’s so good for us to be here.  Let us build shelters for you, and Moses, and Elijah.”

Then cloud swirled around them, and a voice came from the cloud. “This is my Son, the one I love.  Listen to him!”  Then there was silence, and they were alone with Jesus.
On the steep path back down, Jesus turned to them and said, “Don’t tell anyone what you have seen until I have risen from the dead!”  And the three whispered together, wondering what rising from the dead might mean.

From The Bible Retold

It’s such a strange story.

It forms part of the great turn in the gospel accounts – the turn towards Jerusalem, towards death and resurrection.  It follows, and in some ways partners,  Jesus’ conversation with his disciples at Caesarea Phillipi, in which he asks them who they say he is.  He begins to explain what must happen – how the way is the way through death.  Peter, for one, cannot accept it.

And then, this.  A strange experience which seems set apart from our everyday reality, and yet shows a deeper reality, almost a peering behind a curtain.

Today, as I write this, I don’t find it very easy to know what to do with that experience  – I don’t find myself on a mountaintop.   I wonder what it must have been like to be one of the ones left at the bottom,  trying to help a desperate father and his desperate son, and unable to do so (Luke 9:37-43).  I feel more inclined to ask – if all scripture is useful, how is this useful?  If it is supposed to lead to goodness, then how does this do so (2 Timothy 3:16-17)?  These are often the starting of my enquiry into a passage.

And I find that recognising there is more than meets the eye in life, there is both dazzling brightness and deep, mysterious cloud, that we sometimes have hints, intimations, of reality and depth and connectedness does indeed help.  Although there is much that could be said about the greatness of this mountaintop experience, today, now, I am thinking more simply.

 

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Photo, Peter Skevington, Selworthy Green

I am praying for my eyes to be transfigured, so that I can see the depth and mystery, the brightness and cloudiness that is around me every day.  I pray for eyes to see each person I encounter is a holy mystery, beloved by God, made in the image of God, and therefore I seek to look for what they can teach me of God.    I would pray to be able to see as God sees, but I do not think I could bear the weight of that.  But I can pray for a little more understanding, a little more insight, a little more patience to wait in the cloud, not understanding, and to listen to Jesus, even when no words are said.  And I do find that seeing differently leads to acting differently.  I hope so. I hope that if I know more fully that the world is charged with God’s grandeur  as Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote,  I will walk differently through it, with more care and more delight.  I hope that if I know more fully that each person is precious, I will treat them as precious.

 

Grant me to recognise in others, Lord God,
the radiance of your own face.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, 1881-1955

From Prayers and Verses

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Sculpture, Elizabeth Frink – Chapel of the Transfiguration, St Edmundsbury Cathedral

 

On Sunday, we went to the Cathedral at Bury St Edmunds for evensong, beautiful as ever.  We walked past the Chapel of the Transfiguration, my favourite part of the Cathedral.  The table is formed of two pieces of stone.  The base is new, polished, very pale and smooth, and the top has been cleaned, but it is plainly old, broken, worn, rescued and repurposed.  Made new.  Transfigured, even.  Above is this beautiful Frink sculpture, which always catches my breath.  The figure of Jesus seems to float off the wall, it seems to hold within it the movement of resurrection, of ascension, those times which are to come showing that this death is not the end, that now, there will be a rising.  There will be life. Death is transfigured in this sculpture – and included.
You might like to take time to look at it.
How do you respond to it?
Does knowing that it is set in the Chapel of the Transfiguration affect how you see it?
You might like to think about the Transfiguration, and its part in the road to the cross, by dwelling on this – written by Paul in his letter to the Colossians.

19 For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, 20 and through him God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, by making peace through the blood of his cross.

All things reconciled.

The brightness and the cloud.  The voice and the silence.  The death and the life.

Perhaps, like Peter, James and John,  we can wonder what this rising from the dead might mean.

Perhaps we can see things more clearly, with transfigured eyes.