Langdale Lakes and Lodge

Just having a couple of relaxing days at Langdale Lodge in Lincoln, staying with Mark's sister and brother-in-law.  We've had a brilliant time away, although quite hectic at times and two nights here is just what we need to refresh ourselves for the journey back down South tomorrow.  Set in a wonderful location, amidst two fishing lakes, Karen and Tony run a little bed and breakfast and the fishing lakes, of course, but even without the fishing this is the perfect place to go to for a relaxing time away.
Once we get home, I will be posting some photos of our journey to Scotland, the Isles and the North of England, so keep your eyes peeled for pictures of this lovely place.

A Shilling in My Pocket

I'd take a shilling from my pocket
Skim it across the muddy Solent sea.
But there are so many shingles
On the shoreline -
I can't quite reach
The edge of the water.

My arms stretch out
But the world seems so far away
At times like these.
And as for time -
Well I don't know where it goes.
Certainly seems to fly across oceans
When I'm in need.

I'll find that shilling
And spare time to wonder
Where it all came from
Where it goes
And what happens should it sink
To the bottom
Of that muddy sea.

So many years
Not knowing
What's beneath the murky waves
Dreaming of those brilliant beaches
Where toes sink in sand.

The sharp reality
Of stones underfoot
Brings me back to the now.
I slip my hand in my pocket -
The shilling's gone.

Red

Red is the colour
Of Roses
And Valentines
And shiny red apples
That fall on the grass.

Red is the colour of
Cheeks in the winter
Of Santa
And Stockings
And my favourite dress.

Red is the sky
On a hot summer evening
The sea during sunset
The colour of jelly
And little girls' ribbons
They tie in their hair.

Red is the colour
Of lollies
And brollies
You carry about
And then leave
On the bus.

Red is the colour
Of buses
And passion
And the blood that is surging
When you give me that look.

Red is the night-time
Under the covers
After the lights out
When I'm reading a book.

Red is the colour
Of cherries
And garters
And memories
Of tiny bikinis I wore.

And red is the colour
Of shoes with stillettoes
I once took a turn with
Across the dance floor.

Red is the colour
Of lipstick on mirrors
Of giggles
And girlfriends
And painting my nails.

Red is the colour
Of anger
And shame
Of taking the blame
Of the handprint
You gave me
Across the left cheek.

Red is the coat
That I wear in defiance
Red is the tongue
That is numbed into silence
Red are the words
That are trapped
In thought bubbles
That float into sunsets
Like bright red balloons.

Red is the colour
Of wicked
Of danger
Seduction and pleasure
Of yearnings
And warnings
That all come too soon.

Red is the river
That flows from my head now
That blinds me
And binds me
And pushes me further
Than ever before.

And red is the colour
Of freedom
Of healing
Of knowing it's past now
The memories fading
No longer red-raw.

Glassy Brittle Shards

Looking through the pain
Of plain
Sheer glass
Into the night
A black felt blanket
Draped against
The mountain white
The moon-washed shadows
Flow rivers
Dark
And light.

My eyes in pain
As I strain
Against
The glassy brittle shards
Of remembering
That Black mountain
Wide-eyed
Snow dripping
Shadow forming
In a battle ever lost
Against light.

Apple

Only one Cox's apple left
From the two hundred and fifty six
I took from the tree.
All wrapped in brown paper,
Placed in boxes in the attic
In October's russet eve.

Still green
Mottled red,
Uneven,
Reflecting early Summer's light.

Light streaks through my window
And slaps into the skin
Green skin
Hard and pitted.

A fruit from a withered tree
So roughly smooth
Cold
Perfectly formed
An orb of light.

Fresh meadows memories
Feet wet to the ankles
Wading through grass -
Basket heavily laden
With new, ripe fruit.

Meadow birds compete
With childrens' shrill voices
Their picnic blanket spread
Under Orchard's pregnant trees.

Crunch of teeth
Bursting forth the juicy,
Crisp flesh.
Slurping, sucking in
Gathering the flesh with your lips
Grinding the sweetness
Sour,  in your mouth.

Dull thud
Apple falls
Lands on grassy
Green Earth.

Hot Autumn days
Rotting flesh rolling
As you kick your way
Through time.

The upper side shiny
Virginal
Innocent
Carefully concealing
The deadly wasp.

Smell of fermenting flesh
Squelching underfoot
As you mourn the passing
Of another fruitless year.

Close the shutters
Lay down your apples
Conceal Spring's freshness
Within their skin.

Lie by the fireside
Eating apple pie,
Custard.
And wash it down
With gallons of cider
You kept cool in the cellar
From early last year.

Saxaphone

You are sleek
Curvaceous
A beauty in your glinting smile.
Your gentle tones
Seduce my love
His tongue ever eager
On your ever-ready mouth,
Passionately -
At times brutally -
Caressing you.

Whilst I
Shut away in privacy
Listen to your overflowing tones
Smooth and monotonous
Ever moaning
Driving me mad.

Grandma's Best China Teaset

You sit up there in your Sunday Best
Like a family ready to venture to Church
Like a bunch of old relations
Waiting unexpectedly
At my front door
Unwelcome
Yet obliged to welcome in.

Your rims are the faded gold of a weak winter sunset
You wear dust like well-fitted hair pieces
And only bathe when Great Aunts call
Dreading their kisses from crumpled lips
Which are pursed in disapproval at your faded dress -
And as your teapot dribbles
Like an old, incontinent Uncle,
They tut like scornful peacocks
Secretly relieved
That you were handed down to me after all.