The moor is at it’s best
In autumn, with the air
Full of moisture, the place
Closed in
...
A look. Two eyes
Filled with yearning.
A look. Two eyes
Gently burning
...
On 21st of October 1966 a tip of coal slurry slid
Into the village of Aberfan and 144 people were
Killed.
Of these 116 were children who were buried
...
Nineteen hundred and fifty,
There were a lot of girls
Out on the town then,
I was seventeen and
...
That heat drenched summer
Long passed now,
That summer
How we loved lying on the lazy sand.
...
I was suddenly aware
of a new voice
speaking to me.
The voice of a poet
...
She walked away from me
Not looking at me
Taking no notice of me
Glad to be leaving, .
...
Before you there where women who delighted,
But when you came along you were
The only one, there were not enough
Stars in the sky
...
There is always a moment
Just before you sleep
When you feel a tremor
In your heart.
...
I wonder sometimes
If life Is worth living.
I feel drained
With hardly any
...
Wallowing in memories
Memories of childhood.
Places and times
Of no importance to
...
The tide was half in,
and we were cut off,
cut off from everywhere
my mother and I.
...
I am 74, and in 1998 had a stroke and my right side is paralysed. I lived in Cornwall, England until I was nineteen then I went to London and trained to be a Dentist, I then worked in London for thirty years before retiring and returning to Cornwall. My poetry is mainly about the things that I experienced and I am writing it to let people know that there can be a good life after a stroke. Some verse was written in the sixties, the rest in the last seven years.)
Bodmin Moor
The moor is at it’s best
In autumn, with the air
Full of moisture, the place
Closed in
And melancholy.
One feels a sadness
That summer is over, .
But the season is rich
With the vivid colours
Of dying vegetation,
Colours that give you
Hope, for the future
Breathe them.
Bushy lichins and
Ferns grow
In secret places,
The Marsh Fritillary
Flies,
Rivers are clean
And Dippers live
Dangerously
Looking for food
In the fast flowing
Streams,
And Skylarks sing.
Flat rocks piled
One on the other
Precariously
And rocking stones
In balance with the
Universe,
Granite that impervious
Stone
Used for buildings
Tombs and crosses
And mans memorials
To himself.
He has walked
The moors
For thousands of years,
Tin and copper
And white china clay
Have been dug,
Woolly Mammoths
And reindeer have
Roamed the land.
But the people
Are gone now,
Cattle, sheep and ponies
Remain, and the moors
Are themselves
Healing the scars
Left by man.
Brown Willy,
You sit up on
The tops for hours
Just watching
The reflection of the
Earth in the sky, .
When evening draws
In, and darkness wraps itself
Around you, the cry
Of a curlew sounds like
The loneliest, the most
Beautiful utterence on
Earth.
Dear Mike I live in Kennall Vale and love your poem. I am also a Tonkin and interested in your connection to the place. If you get this message then please drop me a line on tonkinhoward@gmail.com. Thanks Howard