6 Poems by Tim Stone
She sets sail
Treat her gently. Don’t rock the boat
For today she sets sail, dressed in her mahogany coat
The pale veil, swathed around her head
She’s wreathed in stillness. Swaddled bed
Dressed to the nines, wrapped in a pall
Casket arms closed tight. No chance of a fall
A human shell, which loved to live
Shut eyes, that once wept, now nothing to give
Handling gifts in statue white hands
Traversing new spheres, into foreign lands
Unaware of all, but posing a thoughtful mull
Holy water crashes the bridge, then splashes the hull
She will quietly slip away, now she lies
Head pointing north on the ebbing tide
Swallowed up into the crimson sunrise
Taking the ultimate helper skelter ride
Sinking down on the current for hours
No breath from God, rustles the flowers
She away through the curtain hiding clouds
No longing glance back at the pining crowds
A future unknown, but the past not forgotten
She has not gone. Only risen
Our night out
The crowds were out, milling and crushing,
Bellowing smoke around the bars.
Licking clean spillage off of the tables,
While pumps poured steaming, “sludging” beer
And we cruised the white knuckle ride of ale.
Inhibitions slipped like a strap off the shoulder.
Eyes glinted with rapier sharpened gleam.
As the world
smaller and in discussion
France appeared to be a seated
South America, my armed linked pal,
And as our eyes sank, and the liquid rose,
Blotting out the swaying flickering rooms.
We staggered into the tunnel of darkness,
Swallowed by the knowledge that tomorrow will arrive
And you skipped from view behind sliding doors,
A New Beginning (Part one)
It is relative calm in the Niddervale valley,
Where the wind blusters without a voice.
But on the steep climb towards the moors,
It sends shrapnel of leaves and twigs,
Leaping walls, dodging trees and slapping my face.
A thrush hides inches away under a bush,
But on the moor top where white waterfalls race,
Drawing impressions of old men’s beards,
Extending long in the breeze.
The sounds are louder than a storm on a beach.
The wind batters like a cook kneading dough,
As it gets rid of the lumps, smoothing out my life.
So I throw my head back and howl in its face.
I splay out my arms and lean forwards, but stay upright.
To the left, fields of grass, gasp for green.
While to the right, gorse resembles an over-cooked pie crust.
And I slip on mud, bury my feet in pools,
As rabbits scurry away playing chicken with me.
The baptism (Part two)
The rain, feather light, sprinkles harder into
What I would call, a shower. And amazingly I shelter,
Beneath the roofless church of St Mary’s.
The yews, whipped by the wisping rain and wind,
Huddle behind naked, ancient walls like wet blankets.
And centuries of history lie still,
As I stand dripping alone in the sanctity,
With God’s hand splashing a blessing onto my head.
Rainy day in Manchester (again)
The bus almost hits the back of the van,
That had slewed across in front of it,
Changing direction in a last second detour.
I mentally note that the driver of the bus,
Has time to hit the horn before applying the brakes,
On the slick, wet, tarmac-ed road.
The squeal, then brash burp bounces off,
The cold, grey-steeled, surrounding buildings.
But by now, the van had long gone in a misted spray,
And finally, as the bus passes me,
I notice the wild gesticulations of its driver.
While he tells the passengers his thoughts.
The noise and brutality of the incident,
Scares and unsettles me.
I’m jumpy, and on edge. Nervous and wary.
Yet I suddenly recall my thoughts before I was disturbed.
“I wish I could walk out in front of the next bus”.
lights go down on Skiathos
in the evening sun.
as the light faded.
in the breathless dusk.
freezing as the dark put colour back
leaves, pulling out like a mud slide,
waiter smiles ergonomically,
menus beneath white porcelain smiles.
jet-licked hair preened on water.
precision plates, the meal swims before our eyes,
coastal aromas around our quivering nostrils
wine tipples gently from bottle to glass,
Gracefully disappearing into rotating mouths
boats idly wobble between waves.
on dunes of swept water,
deep throated Jet foil wades into the harbour.
boatmen stand erect in backs of small boats
designer clothes to shore
‘near as have it’, perfect night
children are tumbling like puppies.
rough shoes and sack-cloth clothes,
bounce off mottled steps.
retort from the bitten mouth
grandfather repel their movements,
the curling mouth or gleeful eyes
and gleam, full of youth.
they will have coarse grained skin,
wizened eyes, scarred bodies and shut minds.
plastic bags full of empty bottles
a vocal grandparents grumbling rumble
today, they just tumble.