This Is The End ...

beautiful friend

'Calling the Collie' - A Poem for Ne'er-Do-Well Dogs

Ted didn't mind inspiring this Christmas card, for Christmas just gone ... 

... though he thinks 2014's card is verging on defamation  ... 

... and as for this poem by the iniquitous Colin Brown, well, it's downright libellous!

'Calling the Collie' is from 'Inking Bitterns' - a book of poems and pictures for wild places, illustrated by Dru Marland - which is published in association with Poetry Can and available from Gert Macky books and good independent bookshops - in Bristol, this means Durdham Down Bookshop, Standfords, and Foyles, price £5. 

Jennifer's Hairy Truth

My daughter, Jennifer, is fundraising for Rape Crisis by cutting and shaving all her hair off in the summer.  (Her lovely, honey-coloured hair will go to make wigs for children with cancer, so it's a win-win situation unless you are her (superstitious) mother who really doesn't want to see her baby with no hair but that's by the by.)

It would be wonderful boost to her resolve if her initial target of £250 could be reached as soon as possible.  If you feel able to help, please visit her JustGiving page and make a donation .  Thank you.  

'Kin' - A Poem for Winter Dusks

This is me reading my poem about starlings roosting or murmurationing or whatever it is they do.  It's also about my extended family and our annual get-together in honour of Hilda Hill, my grandmother.  



'Kin' is from my 2012 collection 'Communion', published by Indigo Dreams Publishing, and also 'Inking Bitterns' - a book of poems and pictures for wild places, illustrated by Dru Marland.  It is published in association with Poetry Can and available from Gert Macky books and good independent bookshops.   

Old Year in Rooky Wood

Having written about rooks roosting, I wanted to reacquaint myself with rookeries. Dru had it on good authority there was a large one in the woods behind Ashton Court mansion, so we parked the car in Clifton and hopped across the bridge.  

The winter woods were open to the sky and suspiciously quiet.  No clumpy nests in trees either. There was a beating but not of rook wings; rather, the drums of City fans (boo).  A pair of crows flew past. A lone starling.  But no rooks.  

Dru was puzzled.  Her source knows her rooks from her crows and her Motacilla flava from her Emberiza citronella.  We had to be in the wrong wood, but by now it was nearly dark and the spectacle, if it had happened elsewhere on the estate, would be over.  

We walked back over the bridge, resolved to research the disappearing rooks of Bristol and the possibility that their kin roost on Wickwar Common, where the summer before last we'd loitered in the hope of hearing nightingales.  

Such trips are never fruitless.  There were no nightingales singing that dark summer evening, but I did come home with a poem burning a hole in my pocket.  And this night there were stunning views over the city and of our really rather nifty bridge.  

Not a bad way to end the old year and start the new - out and about, cupping the spark of curiousity and always remembering, in the words of Seamus Heaney, to 'credit marvels', whether they're the ones we were expecting or not.

All The Colours That Are Black

The Avon Gorge has lost its final rags of autumn colour since we were last there, at the beginning of December. 

It comes to something when the most striking colour in a scene is provided by a crow.  

There are always lots of crows on the promontory of land leading to Sea Walls.  

  

After a lot of running about ball-fetching, Ted was intent on cooling down - and making himelf as dark and mysterious as they are in the process.  Time to head home, methinks.

Brent Knoll and Berrow Beach

Time for the older members of the Christmas gathering to take the air and let all that festive food go down.  I had a hankering to see the Levels - I love this time of year, when they remember their nature and flood - and my swain has been after visiting Brent Knoll ever since I first told him there's a Roman Temple on its summit, so we decided to combine the two and climb it.   Along for the ride were Offspring No 1 and the dog.

First stop, though, the Church of St Michael at Brent Knoll ...

... which is famed for its carved bench ends from the 14th century.  My favourites are the ones that show a fox dressed as a Bishop - possibly either the unpopular Bishop of Bath and Wells, Richard Fox,  or the Abbot of Glastonbury who taxed his tenants heavily.  In the first panel, he is seen preaching to the villagers, who are depicted as geese. 

In the main section of the second panel, the fox has been defrocked and is in leg irons, whilst below he is shown in the stocks.    

In the third and final panel, the fox is being hanged by the geese and retribution is complete.

We then began our ascent of the Knoll along the edge of a very lumpy field.  

Unfortunately one of our party was in DMs rather than walking boots; another, despite detouring to his flat to collect his boots, had affected to leave them behind and was wearing shoes, and for both the way after all the recent rain we've had was exceedingly slippy-slidey ... 

 ... and just short of the summit of the knoll, we realised that it was ours to gain another day.

And so on to Berrow and its Church of St Mary ... 

... with its beauteous old glass ...  















... and presided over by this handsome corvid.  

But the path through the dunes to the beach was calling ... 

... oh and when we got there, it was so beautiful - such balm for winter-weary spirits.

Ted by the wreck of the Norwegian barque, SS Nornen.

Ropes of sand

Logograms

Sandweed and seaflowers

Other dogs wanted to play ... 

... but Ted is only interested in his ball. 

Just throw it - throw it now!

By half three it was getting dusky so we had to go ... 

... back up the enchanted path ...

... past the tree of magpies and home.