Beverley Westwood

On a summers afternoon, pinned behind the wheel,
feeling entombed by a grey vinyl dashboard,
I decided on more pleasing route home.
The road through wood, field and pasture.

Tree after tree passed on both sides,
heavy with foliage, so dense in the sunlight.
And the parallel lines of the road,
now bridle reigns pulling me in

through the rise and fall of a meadow covered
in buttercups, spreading their colour to the horizon.
Scattered in the fluttering grass
lay cows by the dozen.

The ancient beasts were down on their bellies,
heads up looking on down the road.
As if seeing into a future, that to the rest of us
will always remain shrouded.

Sparrows (Haiku)

Brown bomber jackets
In your high garden hanger
A cheerful squadron.

Day Spa

To finally close the door on it all,
albeit only for a short while,
and to step barefoot onto the wet tiles
of a room holding only heat and steam.

Then to sit on a hard marble slab,
breathing in, breathing it out.
Every weeping pore a hissing valve,
releasing a pressure that had been
building for too long.

And later, reclined in muted light by a pool,
I wonder about all of you here with me.
So seemingly deranged and confused
in towel robes and damp slippers.

Those of you managing to stay awake
stare in apparent desperation at an
empty space just beyond your noses.

But this is not a sanatorium from history’s dark pocket.
We are just tough little kernels,
ground down by the pestle and mortar of life.

And for a moment today, we all - for a
little while at least
felt better.

Hollow Bones Embossed

On lifting the blinds this morning
I saw the dusty image of some woodland bird,
imprinted on the outside of the glass.
A transparent freeze frame,

an x-ray of feathers, hollow bones embossed.
The head was in profile, turning away
in its final moment – almost as if he
couldn’t bare to watch.

So little ghost, hovering at my window,
where you fleeing the talons of some predatory raptor?
Where you seeking refuge from the rain
and finding no one home

left your watermark message.
How often I trespass into your world,
the ridiculousness of my seed bag,
my lumbering, gravity laden gait.

Your shadow is smoke from a signal fire,
rising into a sky under which nobody stands.
Paw prints in the snow. The clawed bark
of a tree trunk.

Tiny bones entangled in a ball of grey fur.
An puzzling envelope marked Urgent,
posted first class, but on opening
is found empty.

Today is Good Friday, I realise
as I admire your shrouded image.
Angels wings, fully unfurled,
hanging there – a perfect cross.

God's Sixth and a Half Day?

After eating and apple in a garden,
warmed by sunlight this afternoon,
and lazily tossing its skeleton in to the shrubs,
I was nudged by the elbow of possibility.

The potential of that casually discarded
collection of seeds.
What they might become.
And then it seemed such a waste,

that when we finally exchange our plastic lawn chairs
for the permanence of a wooden box,
hidden in the depths of the damp earth,
that we cannot do the same.

While our essence swims on in the ether,
our remaining lifeless shells could germinate
into a green and leafy existence
a botanical Lazarus, rising to the light,

emerging from the pointlessness of our tombs.
Each crowded cemetery
replaced by a teeming forest of life.
Every graveyard, a humid jungle

of chattering vegetation,
breathing life back into a gasping,
wheezing atmosphere.
The aged ones left behind,

will no longer soap down our headstones
twice a year, enduring a freezing drizzle
with a red bucket, a yellow sponge.
Released from obligation and guilt.

Yes they would sit in the shade of our branches,
listening to birds, leafing through old photographs.
Maybe reading aloud from an anthology of poetry,
compiled by a faceless writer,

a thousand miles away.
But now, here in the garden, the sun is dipping
behind a far off bank of Chestnuts -
which I had never noticed before.

And as my notepad closes,
I wonder who they may have been
and what might have been,
if humanity had been created as seeds
from a crisp green summer’s apple.

Pushing Things a Little Further

I feared our conversation was over
and admittedly, it had become a little one way.

Earlier today, as I was sitting legs dangling
in the slate grey ocean,
waiting for a wave that would not come,
I felt a powerful bump
on the underbelly of this notepad
that has become my surfboard.

Was this an omen? A prophecy of death?
A warning not to push this any further?
Enough is enough it seemed say.
So I began to stroke with a frantic rhythm
for the safety of the shore.

But then later, dozing on the unforgiving bedroom floor,
waiting for my daughter to succumb
to the soft caress of sleep,
I whispered softly into her ear.

And I wish I could tell you how it felt.
When in reply she took her
comforter, favourite toy
and pressed them to my heart.
When she said they would make me go to sleep.

Thank You Billy Collins

Billy Collins' writing inspired me to take up writing poetry. I was so impressed by how he combines clarity with such imagination and brevity. He makes it look so effortless and easy. Something that it definitely is not.

I'd love to hear him read live. I was mortified to find that last year he read at a high school less than 1/4 mile from my front door! Although I hadn't heard of him back then.

It's hard to pick a favourite poem. Even those that didn't appeal to me at first eventually rose to the top to thrill me.

At the moment I keep re-reading "Istanbul". It's about a visit to a Turkish bath, and having experienced the real thing myself in Turkey, he really rings true. It's quite an experience.

"Driving Myself to a Poetry Reading" and "Wires of the Night" contain some wonderful images and similes.

I love listening to Billy's MP3 recording of "The Best Cigarette" anthology late at night in bed. I hear something different in the poems each time I hear them.

I'd love to hear from others fans, particularly those here in England.

And as you're here... read on for some of my stuff. Let me know what you think. Thanks.