Christmas past

My house is full of deer. 
Stags in snow, hinds with calves 
standing anxiously 
in glittering woods of icicle'd trees. 

An incongrous mad march hare
springs through the moonshine shimmered frost 
as a single snowflake 
ices it's way down to the forest floor.

Through an open window
the fat robin perched on the snow covered handle of a spade
sees a small dog with festive hat
eyeing an orphaned mince pie

In the midst of this midwinter menagerie 
a little hope remains,
as camel'd Magi gather, while shepherds watch.
Elite and outcast equal in a lonely place.

Beside the torrent

Nuthatch on wet bark
Soft mud on the path below
Rain drops shake oak leaf

Kawa ga nagareru
Red umbrella held
Slow river weir thundering
Man stands by torrent

Scent of garlic leaves
Wooden bridge over brown stream
Path curves out of sight

©Malcolm Alexander 2017 Continue reading “Beside the torrent”

The girl on the rusty bicycle…..Memories of York

I saw her first in Minister square
Her head a mass of dreadlocked hair
A group of five
Sat in a ring
While one of them did presents bring.

The trees bowed down their words to hear
While doves o’er head did stir the air
Two parcels wrapped
In paper green
Held strange tall cats with golden sheen.

I could not tell if she did cry
Or smile a gentle loving sigh
For then they rose
In ragged line
Going from the yard beneath the sign.

Then next I saw her felted head
While rattling over cobbles sped
Her tinging bell sent
Wandering folk
To safety from each rusty spoke.

The mudguards clatter trailed behind
As she turned sharp into the Wynd
To see her love
Perhaps her cat
We’ll never know to answer that.

©Malcolm Alexander  2017

St Blanes Dawn

The sun touches the uppermost point of the stone cross perched on
the apex of the little chapel's roof. Dew crystaled lichen 
capturing the rays of light and sending them twinkling to the 
ground. Beneath the cross,the building is held in darkness. 
Thick fog clinging, valley filling darkness, coating the walls
in damp rivulets, running down onto the rotting window cills, 
breaking them into sodden lumps of wood. All around the graveyard 
is green with dripping moss, hanging from the stones and flowing 
into the thick couch grass carpet below. 

Voices gather. At first indistinguishable from the 'cack' of
jackdaws in the brooding, bare branches above.  Broken fragments 
of speech, climbing into the valley. The squelch of boots through
the soaking grass, the soft rustle of oilskin, the breathlessness 
of lifting, as the old pedal organ is hauled into place. 

Slowly the voices grow distinct, individual, reaching out to each
other and forming conversations. The growing crowd silencing for
now the cackle of birds. Faces cram into the ruined chapel, lit 
by the sun now reaching down through the chancel window, while the
mist drips from tight drawn hoods. A new gathering of modern monks,
bridging the millennium, reaching back to the monks of Blane, 
holding fast the thread of time.

The pedal organ puffs and wheezes into life, notes clinging to 
the damp air, always a third too high to sing easily. Dawn 
breaks full through the window's stone arch, flooding the
little congregation in pale golden light, as the Easter hymn rises 
once more through the brooding trees, chasing the jackdaws
cackling loudly into the skies.

© Malcolm Alexander 2017


Two wisps of smoke
rising from the glowing
Twist and curl
in the silent air

and dancing together
Teasing, laughing
in the dawn light

then parting
Then distant as lovers
Eternal in their dance

© Malcolm Alexander 2017


Pixels in time

I brush a hair gently
From her white flower girl frock
As a tear slowly forms and
Runs across time.

A small brown stain
Has formed on her left wrist,
Rusting the silver bracelet, 
A blemish on her hand.

Carefully I polish time.
Shining the bangle,
While with siblings care
Renew her soft young skin.

Pixel by pixel
I recreate perfection,
Worn down by passing,
Buried by receeding time.

I cannot work on 
the next time lapsed image:

A girl's dark curled head 
Against a black shadowed door
Smiling and shy in
Her first blue checked bra.

If I could 
I would
Pixel by pixel 
Those nascent breasts. 

For they will never
Nurse long the young
She will produce.

They will merely fulfil
The warning
For the dark haired girl
Caught against the black portal of time.

© Malcolm Alexander 2017

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