Paintings are not just for Reading.

You stare, asking why
What is going on here,
There are grapes and
Lilies,
With a skull
And two chairs.

True it can be read
We do all the time,
But stand and see
How the colours combine
Finding a harmony,
An untold rhyme.

The pink tip of that rose
Echoes in the sky,
Giving a painting
A sudden surprise
Which shimmers the greyness
In her shadowed brow.

If one moves ones eyes
Finds different ways
To enter this world
The artist has made,
You'll come to see
Paintings are not just for Reading.

Love Mary **

Evelyn

I see you as if for the first time ,
Under that shock of blonde hair ,
Hiding behind your small hand ,
Pretending not to be shy.

Eyes blue as sapphire gems ,
Sparkle in the afternoon light.
I feel your quiet thinking
Filling the space with words.

You hear our conversation,
And stay inside to explore.
But I know you are listening
Making sense of this world .

Lots of love from Grandma ***

The last of the Summer roses
were cut today
collecting the remaining flower heads
to keep in a vase
until colour fades
and petals fall.

Love Mary

Send me postcards to heaven.

Send me a postcard to heaven,
To let me know who wins,
Been watching stricklycomedancing
Hope it's Debbie Magee.
Really like Ruth and Anton,
And Susan and Kevin are fun,
Davood so romantic,
And the two lads
Had great runs.

Please let Lily in Casualty,
End up in Ian's arms,
He really lacks all purpose,
But together
They might be grand.
If she goes to Hong Kong,
Letters can correspond,
But don't give up
On courting,
We've waited far too long .

Love Mary ***

Ruby.

You are my Meadow Madonna,
Painted in front of a hill,
And Masaccio's Beauty,
Sitting upon a throne.
Bellini settled you in a landscape,
Drapery behind in gold;
Sassetta named you
'Mother of Humility',
As the baby held your gown.
But you, my beautiful, Ruby,
Carry your mother's child,
Your 8th sibling, a sister,
Proudly in your arms.

Love to Ruby and Bluebell
November 2017
Love Grandma ***

You.

I touch you, only by way of passing,
Moving my hand along your sleeve,
Feeling the texture of wool.
You bow over a book,
Read quietly, hidden inside.
Kissing the smoothness of skin,
Where your hair makes a ring,
I remember how I plaited it,
Tying it up in ribbons,
Then your face in a mirror
Half smiles,
As if this intrusion was unsure.
We stand, today, wishing;
That time was left
To be able to sing;
Sheltered under
A soft wind.

For Roger Love Mary xxxx

She turned it in her small hand
Making its inanimate form live
With her imagination.
These things that were loved
Rested in her heart as she dreamed,
Slept under the coverlet by her soul,
Were always part of her being.
Carried her forward to a time
When they might be replaced
By some living breath.
But in her memories they remained,
Her playthings always remained.

Love Mary for Evelyn xxxxx

Living with the Marigolds.

Kindness dwells in the hearts of few,
It encircles them like a gown,
But never is worn with mightIness,
Being humble bound.

It finds its way through thorn and briars and
knotted coastal paths,
And grows where disparity lies,
And knows of broken hearts.

It does not come from trouble free
Or selfish intent,
Living with the marigolds,
A simple garden scent.

For those who have travelled far,
Know the ways within,
Find giving more sustaining,
Than all that power can bring.

Love Mary xxxx

Poetry is my friend ,
It lends to me a library,
One unknown and unread,
Untutored there to be said,
A simple line or many verse
Discovering sentiments
I can converse.

Love Mary ***

So you went to the barbers to get a hair cut,
Looked in the mirror to see what you got,
Watched those pigtails disappear
But still long enough to tuck behind ear.
Your first hair cut was not too much of a shock,
Quite liked the feeling of scissors in your locks,
The comb was gentle, the lady kind,
Won't worry about going another time .

Love Grandma ***

Some saw him as compassionate
A man of the cloth
Caring with tenderness his sheep
But I did not .
For me I saw an ego unsatisfied by
A childhood of expectation
Grown forgetful of his profession
By the unforgiving pull of disappointment
Such was his striving that nothing stood
In its way.
Not the virtues of religion or occupation
Laid them all down for another mark
On his cap, a token of goodness in the community.
But I could see the transparency of his gaze.
And never turned away.
But he sank in his cowardice of deceit.

Love Mary x

Round about . For Evelyn .

He took me to the station
And put me on a train
never wanted to go there
So soon came back again.

In the land of jumblies
Where pink balloons fly
And snowdrops are yellow
I am rather shy.

Yes said the peacock,
We'll always let you in
As long as you wear striped pyjamas
And wave a fountain pen.

So when I got home
Went straight up to bed
To find all my animals
And wrap them round my head.

A nonsense rhyme for Evelyn love Grandma  ***

Cranberry and Sickert.

Cranberry the caterpillar and Sickert the snail,
Went for an adventure in the woodlands one day,
It was early Summer and the leaves bright green,
The trees swaying, gently, in the light , warm breeze.
When out of nowhere they saw a girl
Blonde as sunshine ,with clips in her hair,
They stopped to ask the girl her name
And very quietly she did explain,
I am Evelyn from fox-moor  way and here is my sister with whom I play.

They all gathered sticks and built a house,
It took a long time , they did not rush.
And then there was time for tea, and juicy leaves for Cranberry,
Evelyn told them all her news, her days at playgroup and the zoo.
At six o'clock it was time to go , journey backwards to find their homes.
It had been a special day, to find Evelyn and Florence in the woods that way.

Love Grandma Mary ***

Uneven.

The flag stones were uneven,
So on wet days there was always a chance of slipping .
Even more when it snowed.
In Summer the grass grew through
And daisies,
Occasionally a hollyhock took home
Outlandish in comparison.
Once cemented in place
By a loved father,
In a garden filled with roses
And a Syringa tree.

Love Mary xxxx

Poetry falls in the spaces,
When time and love decree,
That no other language,
Lets the world be free;
On the edge of something,
Spilling outwards in the wind,
Searching and chasing,
To let the letters in;
Far from our country,
Or token barred gate,
Poetry unlocks,
And we can escape.

Love Mary

The Gardener.

He came in grey,
A favourite colour with him,
Carrying a simple bag
With toothbrush and toothpaste,
Trousers and a kneeling pad.
The day was humid and sunny.
Got to work immediately.
Moving from left to right
Along the borders,
Cutting, digging, pulling,
As only Bear knew.
Filling the green bin
To overflowing with stalks
The unwanted excess
Of a mature garden.
She watched him
Busying himself,
Never stopping for rest.
It was his habit
This workmanship.
She loved him for it.

By Mary
Thank you to our Gardener .

The Paddling Pool.

Leaves decorate its surface
Like tiny bobbing boats,
Hands swish the clear water
Against a background of blue paint;
Tips of seedheads from the Sycamore trees,
Float their aeroplane wings.
Always in shade
This edge of the pool
Gathers the year's dusty weather
In its gully.
Trousers rolled, skirts tucked into knickers,
The children paddle;
Not minding the stone sharps
Beneath feet.
Gritty from recent storms,
It is still a delight
Under the trees
In the evening sun.

Cassiobury Park in the 1970's
By Mary Kearns

Closed The Window,
Tidied the sink,
Emptied the ******* bin,
Sorted the letters,
On the kitchen table,
Watered the *** plants,
Folded the clothes,
Wiped the fridge door,
Can't say more.

Love to all my family and friends

Taking the green walk.

Which ever way you approach
This tunnel of green,
Whether from Yarmouth
And the incoming ferry,
Or nearer the Totland end
The experience was much the same.

Underfoot a mossy path,
Dampened by overhanging trees,
Deep puddles to navigate
And the stinging of nettles
In the bracken filled undergrowth;
Adjacent fields where bulls
Occasionally got out of hand,
Charging sporadically and scaring
The birds.

This route was both our outward
And homewards journey,
Taken on family picnics
To Fort Victoria,
A viaduct of small arcades,
With photographs
Of seafaring men lining walls,
And a cafeteria,
Selling limited produce.

Trips to Yarmouth to shop,
Collecting momentoes
And sticks of peppermint rock,
Allowed for the green walk,
Back to the coziness of a chalet.
We use to sing as we walked
The three miles or so,
I looking for blackberries
To take home for tea.

The only difference of route,
Was that of expectation,
The early day high spirits,
Fresh from sleep,
Looking forward to sandwiches
And perhaps an ice cream.
Returning was more arduous,
Tired feet and lagging behind,
The green road seemed longer,
And the holiday
Another day shorter.

Love Mary **

The boarding party.

The gathering was informal
Dressed in what was comfortable
For the cold February day.
Here in front of the window,
The panoramic view across
The fields
Stationary as a postcard
Supported only memories.

My father leaned on the chair
As he always had when
Talking about too many cars
And the age of girls having babies.
We listened trying to avoid
Time passing
Trying to be brave for him,
For ourselves.

The Norman church on the Alan Bay
Road, a place of historic beauty,
Where on holidays we stopped,
To eat the days remaining sandwiches;
Received our mother into the parish
There reunited with her father, Frank.
In the air a gentle voice called helping
tired feet make that last mile home.

Love to My mother Grace Emily Westbrook and my dad Eric William Henry Ayton-Robinson .

If you were to walk,
To where the bay curves,
There is a cove with fishes,
And slippery clay,
Grey and squelched,
Between toes;
Here is where we played,
Under the seagulls call,
Between  the fishing boats;
Watching "Red Funnel"
Make straight lines
For France.

In my rocking horse sundress,
Red plastic sandals,
I collected shells and
Coloured pebbles,
Splashed in the warmed
Sea water and thought of
Robinson Crusoe.
My brother climbed
The cliff face above,
I watched him, still young,
My heart beating time.

And so we suddenly left,
Grew away from childhood,
From each other,
Drifted as the seaweed,
In and out with the tide.
Floated looking at the sky,
Calling out sometimes
To the echo of the bay,
For all those days of sunshine,
Of innocence and oneness,
Never to return as we were then,
Children on a beach at play.

Love to my brother ,Richard from Mary **

I watched you today on FaceTime,
A new invention of hyperspace.
You were smiling
I wanted to join in with your playing,
What was it today?
A playmobil playground
And added dinosaurs
In red , blue and green.
You made them talk
Little words from your head.

Love Grandma to Evelyn.

Last one

Shy at the door your face hides the words
And yet a cheeky smile grows into humour
Wicked with irony and oh so tight.
You make me laugh every time
Baring the truth for all to hear,
And littlest daughter you draw
As beautifully as Picasso,
Volumes full of roundness and strength.
Look at all those children you bred
All gorgeous as buttermilk.
Love you for who you became
Wise and worldly in a harsh world.

Love Mum xxxx

So many ways of writing.

He read me a page from his diary,
Stating his comings and goings,
The movement of the moon as
It disappeared at dawn break,
With wind direction, north westerly,
The days shopping list of groceries,
His meals and walks in the park,
The washing and cooking;
And succinct statements about
Mary's health.
At the end I thought how beautiful
Writing with so little but saying
So much more.

For my Roger
Love Mary xxxx

The Camelias think it is Spring
One white bud ,two red
Daffodils lift a head
And the aconites
Shower a golden ring
And yet last years hollyhocks
Still in leaf ,promising flowers.
The skies are overcast
The air damp and crisp
Inside my window
I notice the change
It is January 2018.

Love Mary **

Penguin and Platypus

Penguin and Platypus put  on their hats and coats,
Took the train to Manchester to find themselves a goat,
Found themselves, in the middle, of an orchestra playing Bach.
Asked to join the fiddlers, to give them a second chance.

After the rain clouds dropped in for tea,
Decided that the goat was now nowhere to be seen,
Inside  Lyons Corner  House had hot chocolate and cream.
Caught the train back to Stroud,
And ran home across the green.

For Evelyn and all those who are gorgeously mad.

Love Grandma ***

The magpie children .

They are running flying their hands through the wind,
Catching the dandelion seeds in a delight for freedom.
Out of nursery rhyme books crawling
Back memories,
Voices of maidens high pitched ,dazzling,
If I could reach them now,
Slow time to the hour
When youth took my hand, recklessly,
And spun me in the air.
Now upon my bench they sit,
These quiet solemn children
Reading my message
Given with love.

Mary xxxx

The reeds in the river bed,
Know it is Spring,
There is lightness in footsteps,
And the birds sing,
But far out in the meadow,
A little girl cries,
For something she lost,
And never could find.

Love Mary **

If on finding me gone
The chair an empty space
Don't send me a rose
It will not replace.
But let those roses grow
With bud and leaf and stem
To flourish in the garden field
To live and laugh again.

Love Mary ***

Mother of mine.

I hold onto the door frame,
The scullery a small addition
Where you cook , mangle the clothes,
And wipe steam from the windows.
I am always seeking you out,
Talking endlessly about your life,
The loss of your mother,
As a child of seven, and boarding school.
The kitchen is adjacent,
It is our space for eating
The red Formica table set out
With mats and cutlery.
In the corner a boiler for the water,
Difficult to light.
So many times, on bended knees, with a sheet of newspaper and matches
You tried.
Coal dust on your hands.
How patience you were,
My mother.
I remember your hands
Rough from soap powder and the cold.
The simple wedding band.
In the kitchen cupboard drawer
You took out a small zipped bag,
Cherry red lipstick, rouge and powder,
A quick splash to welcome
The man you loved.
Mother you were splendid .

Love Mary xxxx

There she is the girl who always pushes prams.
Had so many
Were needed to transport her loves
Those soft bouncing things with wings
That look up at you in adornment
Or pull a soother from a mouth.

They go everywhere these warm little hearts
Wrapped up in fur jackets and shirts,
And how many miles have you travelled sweet maid,
Over the hills and far
But you always return before the stars
To the safety of the nursery.

For Lizzie love Mum xxxx

A love song .

And if he thought it he did not say
But turned away in quiet despair
As if the air had cooled right down
And only others remained to stay.

Mary

Sinking

You drown me stretched out , undone
I waited so long to be me
In the undergrowth standing upright
In a wooded sonnet
You sang to me your words
I held on to the crest
Cherished, garnished by love .

Mary ***

Falling plums.

I would sit for hours
Squelching the stones to
A deepness.
The birds had taken their chew
Yellow beaked blood stained .
It was difficult finding a clearing
To be comfortable.

I disliked the plum falling season.
The paving stones dirtied.
No one collected them
Always too few
Yet I remember the word Damson
In a labelled jam jar
Stiff and sticky on a larder shelf.

Love Mary Kearns

What is it to arrive.

Running down the garden path
The flag stones in a row
Looked into the window glass
Hoping a face would show.

No movement of internal light
Or barking of the hound
Only the birds twittered there
But no chattering sound.

Saddened by the empty place
Stood to wait awhile
Then from the corner of the gate
Broke your happy smile.

Love Mary ***

Lightly Laden.

It had been there for a long time,
Clinging to the edges,
Waiting to be opened,
Preciousness,
Residing in space,
Between then,
And the unknown,
Hopeful.

Who dares disturb this,
Imagining,
Replacing contemplation,
With fact.
For in these weeks, months, years,
Everything that will,
Or ever could,
Is still possible.

Love Mary ***

The Empty Field

In a cornfield lay a young girl,
With hazel eyes and brown curls,
Every Sunday she courted him,
After church when the light was dim;
Their love was the sweetest breath,
An unconsummated tenderness,
Lips touching, arms strong,
Did not hear the coming bombs.

Two years in the field they lay,
Grew closer at each passing day,
Spoke their dreams under the sky,
Hoped that neither soon would die;
A ring she wore upon her hand,
Something simple to understand,
His name was Bill and hers Grace,
Unified by a single faith.

At eighteen he went to war,
Left his sweetheart by the shore,
Held her warmth against his chest,
On his shoulders her head did rest;
Then one night she had a dream,
He came to her, it did seem,
To say one last goodbye,
To the girl to be his bride.

She waited but not a word,
From her handsome airforce boy,
Then it came, told how he died,
Flying in the blue so high;
It was the first day of his war,
That took her first love and her joy,
Now in the cornfield under the sky,
The grass has grown where she did lie.

Love Mary
Based on my Mother's life

From Totland to Alan Bay.

Climbing by path and road
Until we reached the edge
When then by turning found
It leaving the chalky cliff.

And follow out across the fields
A view to tip the eyes,
Heavenly laden with wild parsley
And fluttering butterflies.

The accent so gradual as not to tire
With sunshine overhead
The summit came slowly into sight
As did what had been hid.

Dresses blowing in the breeze
Clung all about our knees
Salty spray misted the air
And the seagulls squawked away.

Then down we looked towards Alan Bay
All glittering foaming sea
The colliding of the coloured pebbles
A wildness and free.

All our senses did explode
Our hearts began to beat
For here lay so much loveliness
Just below our feet.

Love Mary ***

Scraping before the rain.

Arriving on time ,
Before the rain had begun to fall,
Took the wire brush from his bag,
One to replace his father's,
Which now remained a garage relic
It's few bristles showing years of use.
Brought back memories,
That sound of scraping,
As he cleared the years debris.
So much learnt from that man,
Respected and loved by a son.
Now doing the same for others,
Scraping before the rain.

By Mary

Xxxx

The artist and the model.

When I draw you I create both of us anew,
Your form fills my eyes and I am moved,
I take from you myself, and all my idiosyncrasies.
You are my voice calling its name,
I try to find what is beauty,
Through line and mark and scale,
I give this back to you as Love,
A drawing on a page.

Love Mary

In the woods

Because everything is useless I draw,
Finding refuge in the marks and shapes,
Discovering new friends in the woods,
Only here I am free from life's cruelty,
My imagination is my companion,
Keeping pace, holding out a hand,
This is the only love I believe in,
There at the touch of a fingertip,
Always waiting at the door for me to follow.

Mary **

Eight pots under my front window,
Not selected but a random collection,
Presents in tubs ,seed floated flowering,
Remains of painstaking gardening,
And days of inspiration and sun;
And still in one a yellow wallflower,
Finding a home, colourful and bright,
Not waiting to dance but abundant self,
Bearing out the winter storms,
To give its beauty in return for chance,
Underneath my window sill.

Love Mary xxxx