Leaf
It wasn’t the time to leave,
but stem chewed and gale combined and the leaf fell.
Hairstreak, full green not yet ready,
not curled by summer’s end, crisped by West Coast salt, mottled by frost or holed by Sawfly.
Shadow dancing the lake.
Tumbling, a fairground shuggy, a mother’s touch rest onto the blackness.
The magnetic water pull.
The long float.
Damselfly platform.
Captured on lava foreshore whipped by the fell breath channelled down ice ravaged ghyll.
Purpose complete.
Its forgetful host fed, post prandial.
Unburdened.
Awaiting the awakening.
Another moment goes by, another monumental stride
day by day, year by year wind-borne dreams
cascade amongst perpetual memories, gifts of light
that penetrates through the windows of time, the clarity
of it all giving hope to a fading prayer.
the inept causeway
a track into the unknown
life’s a survey map
The village supreme basks in the delicacy
of a summer sunlight, the moor-side bleak, in the
shadows of winter’s hoarfrost moon, fluvial waters
jostle amidst ancient limestone, kisses floral river banks
of wooded ghyll. Even the folk remain incessant,
anchored to an inflexible pace, bridled within their
time warp of conformity.
a cosmic spirit
for grace t’was never to be
in chains an outcast
With memories to conceive, each precious moment an
endless reaching out to embrace a time gone by,
only I it seems, cannot find a place there within
the dream. ‘Looking in, alas always, looking in.’
enigma of keys
to unlock a shackled mind
with an open heart
© Harry J Horsman 2022
It was a cloud burst on that ominous bleak stormy day
The beck in ‘Johnny Walker’s Ghyll’ overflowed blocked our way.
Yet with speculation and tenacity we kids waded
Where ‘Back Lane’ once followed the dry limestone wall unaided.
Beyond the hedgerow sky line, the patter of many voices
Unconcerned having escape the down pour laugh and rejoices.
After all, ‘Jack Steel’s barn’ where the hay bales were still warm
From those the weary village urchins like us sheltering from the storm.
I think of such innocence today when to avoid ventures in the rain
When the village landscape portrayed through a vastly different pane.
Children without a childhood so sophisticated with mobile phone
An intellect far removed from the values of yesterday did hone.
But today still happy I am when faced with trials of growing old
That old barn my sanctuary I can enter time again is to me gold.
© Harry J Horsman 2020
Wrapt in the otiose aumbry of pride
A glede hythe a quiff will gust aside
Her folly selcouth
Binds her fast to her wanweird
To speak ever sooth
She is thrawn, my sister, my coëval
Into fell Truth’s ghyll she will smiling fall
Morrow’s dawnsun, rise!
Drown in the throes of today!
Sky dragons, melt away!
Morrow’s dawnsun, drown!
Rise in grief’s eternal day!
Sky dragons, melt away!
Childhood Theme Park
In the shadow of Ilkley Moor,
Cow and Calf rocks watch over.
Growing up in a rural town,
A childhood hillside rover.
Flowing like the River Wharfe,
Young days of endless wonder.
Summertime never ending,
Joys of innocence I plunder.
Nature trails in bluebell wood,
Lido swimming in open air.
Bogey cart down Curley Hill,
No fear for safety, didn’t care.
My town was full of adventure,
I had my very own pebble beach.
Tickling Trout by old bridge,
Hide under stones out of reach.
Hebers Ghyll, moorland streams,
Teasing the whirlpool in May.
Pooh sticks from dusk to dawn,
Just one more perfect day.
Memories of ten years l treasure,
Shaping the person in me.
Ilkley was my first theme park,
Days of future past, let them be.
He that walks most tall amongst men
amongst men has the furthest to fall,
when in ancient times in yonder Scar Ghyll
brazen stood the hanging tree
without redundancy.
The morning had not yet spoken
waits upon sunrise, natures trill,
only one man there stands broken
facing the north wind’s icy chill,
a storm cloud rolls in
the preacher reads the last rites
talks of redemption
this illusion stabs the mind
the noose tightly grasps his soul.
© Harry J Horsman 2018
In ancient times in yonder Hebers Ghyll*
alone stood the hanging tree---
stagnant redundancy.
*Hebers Ghyll Ilkley West Yorshire UK
© Harry J Horsman 2012
To embrace
life’s analytic myth
to inspire
nature’s symbolic smile,
to manoeuvre
amidst northern skies of blue
to roam
chauvinistic contours sensitive and true.
To perceive
inclement purple haze that rebels
against the moor side mist,
to dwell if only momentarily within
a dream upon
“Windgate Nick” Where dandelion
seeds float in sunbeams
of radical tranquil,
and fanciful fables
of innocent finery are spawned.
To wander
the fallow tracks of “Heber’s Ghyll”
Stride the sparsely tussock
of “Nab wood Hill”
Create vernacular legend
amid “Viking” Skill!
Ramble again
the stony edge of “Ilkley Moor”
Split the boulder find the cure
formulate
a pageant, compose an
hereafter tour, if only to believe in him!
Entered Mark Toney's 2022
Poetry Marathon mile 22.
9/12/2022
poem written 2011
The clouds wept that bleak stormy Wednesday
The stream in the farm land ghyll overflowed.
Shrouded within the moorland mist
The water rose then rose and rose
Yet with renewed hope and speculation
Wee lads waded where ‘Turner Lane’ once was.
Beyond the boundary stone wall
The patter of many voices
Laughing in the face of the fierce wind
After all ‘Jack Steel’s Red Barn was there.
Hay bales still warm and snug
From the urchins body
Gave shelter to the wearisome
Those of us threaten by the rain.
© Harry J Horsman 2010
Moment by moment
day by day,
year by year.
Wind-borne dreams
cascading amongst
perpetual memories,
gifts of light that
penetrates through the
windows of time, the
clarity of it all
giving hope to a
fading prayer.
The village supreme
basks in the delicacy
of a august sunlight,
the moor-side bleak, in the
shadows of a hoarfrost
moon, fluvial waters
jostle amidst ancient
limestone, kisses floral banks
of wooded ghyll. Even
the folk remain incessant,
anchored to an inflexible
pace, bridled within their
time warp of conformity.
With memories to conceive
each precious moment, an
endless reaching out to
embrace a time gone by,
only I it seems, cannot
find a place there within
the dream. “Looking in,
always, looking in!”
© Harry J Horsman 1994
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