For the Silent - an anthology of poems in aid of the League Against Cruel Sports

Yes, foxes can be a pest on farms, and sometimes their numbers need to be controlled, but I've never been able to imagine my way into the mindset of someone who would hunt animals to the point of exhaustion, and then kill them and call it 'sport'.

Nor can my publishers, Ronnie Goodyer and Dawn Bauling of Indigo Dreams, and to spread the word (literally), they have produced this beautiful anthology of poems, For the Silent, proceeds from the sale of which go to the League Against Cruel Sports.

I'm delighted to have a poem in it, rubbing its humble shoulders with poems by Mary Oliver, Simon Armitage, Thomas Hardy, Margaret Atwood, Pascale Petit, Liz Berry, Seamus Heaney, Alison Brackenbury, Siegfried Sassoon, John Clare, Ted Hughes and many more.

If you have a heart and a soul, this book is for you. It costs £10 + p&p and is available from the Indigo Dreams website. (Buying directly from Ronnie and Dawn will maximise funds for the League.)

Love is Metaphysical Gravity

And so to the lovely Somerset town of Frome to deliver leaflets for the fast-approaching Bristol Spring Poetry Festival.  But first a stop off at Mells, for a  spot of obeisance at the Edwin Lutyens-designed bus stop and the tomb of poet Siegfried Sassoon.  The Burne Jones embroidery which was away being restored the last time I visited the Church of St Andrew was back in situ and looking resplendent.  

Amongst the beautiful and achingly tasteful headstones of various Horners (of Little Jack fame), Asquiths and Bonham-Carters, I noticed for the first time a couple belonging to the O'nions family.  Couldn't help smiling.  I'd much rather be earthy, multi-layered and really rather pungent Mrs Onions any day.  

In the Walled Garden there was poetic delight in this quote from a poem by Pablo Neruda: I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees

Next, a quick tour of Frome, taking in the Merlin theatre and then the town centre - always a delight, but even more so on a beautiful sunny day when disseminating news of the forthcoming poetic feast just up the road in Bristol.

Finally, a leisurely lunch in  the George Inn at Norton St Philips. Nice work if you can get it. 

A New Year Jaunt Part II: Mountains and Molehills

Stepping back out of St Ishow's Church into the churchyard, you are again swept up in the magnificence of the Grwyne Fawr valley.  It hasn't changed while you've been inside, it's just that you were so beguiled by the artifice of human beings, you forgot Nature's genius. 

Here's a reminder.

I loved this sheep with a black spot on its bum. 

The Churchyard was stuffed full of interesting gravestones.  I particularly liked this fallen angel with molehill ...

... and this spelling mistake, spotted by Dru.  

Oh, and this headstone also: A Man is born to dye

One thing that struck me was the number of plain yet beautifully lettered graves which resembled those in Mells in north-east Somerset.  It's almost as if the churchyards are twinned ... 

Robin Truelove, Partrishow                      Siegfried Sassoon, Mells

        gravestone, Mells                              gravestone, Partrishow

... or maybe both villages tend to attract well-heeled arty corpses.

After a good fossick around the churchyard, it was time to return to the well, the site (so the story has it) of St Ishow's martyrdom in (it is believed) the 6th or 7th century.  It's a peaceful spot nowadays.

Of course, springs were sacred long before the Christians came, as were yews.  I took a small chunk of wood from the yew stump up in the churchyard to lay with all the other votive offerings.

This is the well itself, with a pannikin hanging on one side and niches for offerings.    

Heading for Crickhowell, we stopped to see if we could capture a photo that replicated the vision of Dru's picture.  By scrambling over a barbed wire fence, Dru just about managed it.  Meanwhile, a pair of ravens chatted to each other over head.  Perfect.