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Ian Souter Poem
The Rocking Chair That Keeps…
Up in the attic, there’s something or someone
that keeps creating an eerie, dreary air:
for the darkness is greedy
as it smothers a world of mystery,
a century of family history,
all boxed and cased
in a crust of rust and dust!
Pictures of Dad as a sprightly lad,
Gran with no wrinkle, just a youthful twinkle
and bits of me bagged and forgotten.
However, it is the empty, rocking chair
that reaches out with a squeeze of….. unease.
Yes, up in the attic, there’s something or someone
that offers, a bite of fright and a dreaded dare:
as pipes snake into secret, cobwebbed lairs
and wooden beams stream like overhead train lines
while the excitement of discovery hides in the past.
But it is the empty, rocking chair
that grips and grabs at my attention
as I sense ‘something’ harbouring its wooden frame.
Oh yes, up in the attic, there’s something or someone
that keeps, nudging and grudging with a gloomed glare:
the room suddenly trembles, my heart holds tight
but it’s only the wind galloping by at night.
Immediately a watery giggle,
gurgles the length of a pipe
increasing my midgets of fidgets.
I turn and an aged mirror offers a face of fear
but I breathe again – for it has only borrowed mine.
Up in the attic, there’s definitely something or someone
that keeps, me uneasy, even queasy, each time I am there:
for the darkness is greedy
as it smothers a world of mystery,
a century of family history,
all boxed and cased
in a crust of rust and dust!
But now…. something far more shocking,
a lone rocking chair that keeps.…rocking!
Ian Souter 2025
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
Winter’s Wolf Wind
She smuggles her way to the window
watching daylight struggle through the curtains
to collapse on the floor… grey and lifeless.
Clouds like distant, dark thoughts,
slide secretively overhead
while she edges the window open
like a favoured page in a special book;
it allows the night’s story to begin.
She watches, entertained, as the dark
sneaks around like a thief in soft shoes
while a sudden scrape of moon
offers up a faint, pallid face
which, in turn, is swiftly wiped away.
She senses a change in the night…
and not for the better.
Silence, a chill, all still.… until….
Trees quiver, clouds scurry, the sea judders;
winter sends its wolf wind to scour the darkness.
The night nervously begins to skip up and down
as the wolf wind howls across the beach,
snapping at the mumbling, crumbling sand,
slapping, punching on the concrete walls,
bullying beach huts with butts of anger and frustration
while lightning, the night’s cat, scratches the sky.
Now the wolf wind’s almond, sharpened eyes
turn their chilling yellowness towards her;
coldly, boldly clawing its way to her house.
Her veins twist and twitch with apprehension,
as the wolf wind now snarls at her window,
forcing her to roll rapidly, snappily inside the curtain,
forcing her to tighten every sinew, every pore,
preventing the wolf wind creeping under her very skin.
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
The Journey
The journey has been long,
the path has been narrow,
the afternoon is shortening
and my destination creeps closer.
I walk on.
The path still strolls ahead of me
and no matter how fast I travel -
that fact never alters.
I move off now as clouds bundle above,
an acting audience to my every step
perhaps comparing my journey
to what is to come…
with past travellers?
The path now smooths around a corner
and hills suddenly rear to mountains,
mountains that soar and tower
like gigantic, herculean creatures.
And there, at the base of these verdant giants,
sits the house, alone and seemingly lonely!
The path now is bored and wanders off
so I amble on towards my destination
while the house winks with lucent whiteness
and a spark of red - offers a door.
I draw closer, distracted as I note
a sinuous slither of smoke
sliding out of a finger of chimney.
I watch as it twists, thins, and tapers upwards.
My thoughts now attempt to sense the house,
observe its emotion, recognize its mood
when suddenly the spark of red…. scrapes slowly open
and a worn shoe with woollen hand edges into view!
They both stop as if hesitating, knowing their place,
allowing the mountains to move closer, to loom down...
and a distant memory now shivers my spine.
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2024
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Ian Souter Poem
The Lone Tree
The autumn day has been muffled up
in thick scarf and rainproof jacket
until darkness, countryside darkness,
clambers gradually over the horizon;
silence, stillness obediently at its heels.
Then black the night, wild the sea
and the lone tree stands tall,
branches muscled, trunk heavily rooted,
protective of its remaining leaves.
Next morning springs up; a multi-coloured umbrella!
It begins listening attentively
to the whisperings of the lone tree
teaching its remainder of leaves their tables,
i.e. how many wooden tables
could be cut from a certain sized tree?
Then suddenly scampering beneath is the wind
whistling a perky rendition of, “Good Golly, Miss Molly!”
Then pulling and pushing at the tree's branches,
it plucks at the helpless, hapless, hued canopy
until only a few leaves remain,
until only.. one remains;
a trapeze artist swinging from a high branch.
The lone tree now stares helplessly towards the hills
where its cousins, the evergreens, hold arms
as they dance gaily down a staggered slope
while a well-trodden path huffs and puffs
its way up in the opposite direction.
Then beyond, the sky sits heavily on the sea
as though resting on a blue chaise longue
while that wayward wind whips across
a mustard coloured scarf of a beach
tugging relentlessly at the weak and helpless.
Meanwhile above, the lone tree,
clouds sketch themselves in dark grey
and watch as the wind tires to an old man,
gnawing away with its bared, toothless gums
until finally that lone leaf.. succumbs.
Later, the hills step backwards into a fading light
leaving the lone tree standing naked
apart from wooded limbs swaying heartedly
in an attempt to cover its remaining… dignity.
Ian Souter Dec. 2024
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2024
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Ian Souter Poem
My Father’s Hand!
My father left me when I was a baby
and all that remained of him… was his hand!
The hand that edged its way
into the last photo he took of me!
As I grew, I used to study that hand
searching, rooting for details of personality;
a reflection upon my possible characteristics.
Did I see a loving hand, skinned in kindness
or a selfish one, boned and heartless?
So I aged, feeling different, aware of scarring.
Occasionally, I tried to break free from solitude
but my partner kept whispering me back
until I would try to cry
but not understanding the steps.
I was poor on love; overfed on loneliness
but sensing the tremors of isolation in others.
Thirty years later and a father’s day email!
Then gradually, slow as molasses,
I unlocked, I opened my front door,
tentatively, anxiously allowing him into my life.
Eventually a pleasure, a confidence, a warmth,
began to seep, to trickle into my soul.
The abandoned child had been found
and the next part of my life could begin.
I discovered a father, one who wanted forgiveness,
and, at last, I could part company with
the stings of rejection, the stabs of loneliness
which had serrated away at my life.
I could now think about all those memories
that I used to share with myself,
hoping that now I had rediscovered someone
I could apportion, ration them with.
I yearned for a father who would listen,
who would share…..
and in time, he did
and in time, I learnt to forgive.
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
Morning Turns the Page
Night lies softly across the beach
as delicate as a black, silken scarf
while, underneath its dark veil,
the sea is blue tissue paper
with whitened finger tips,
wrapping an early morning present.
Then night, nature’s magician,
magically removes its black disguise
allowing early morning light to reveal its gift -
an awakening beach washed by sea and sun.
A hurrying-scurrying train rushes up,
sprinting between houses,
swerving towards the beach,
as if trying to catch an elusive wave.
Next, with a deeply drawn breath,
its metal body ducks under a hump of bridge,
rattling out the other side with a whistled scream.
A giant, oak jumps back in surprise
branches fumbling, acorns tumbling
like golden coins being spent
while blades of grass ripple and flex
waving the chattering carriages on their way.
Speedily, the train scribbles its way forward
reaching for the distance where a town awaits,
where streets and cars are a working toy set;
at the seashore, waves calm themselves
throwing final cups of cappuccino froth
over coffee, coloured grains of sand.
The sea slows to a mutter, a white whisper
while the beach gradually relaxes and waits
to be toasted by a warming sun.
Later when the morning gradually
turns the page into the afternoon,
the day loses its chuckle
as the seaside scene is met with
a push of wind and a punch of a storm.
Long departed the train
continues to stretch its journey
searching scenery to entertain its passengers
while hugging the coast like a long, lost friend.
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
A Sensitive Man
He was the finely spun, hushed type
his character often folded up;
inside pocket rather than on display.
He felt different but followed the rules:
school, college and then work.
Politeness escorted him courteously;
his kindness was always considerate.
In early years, his words seemed slight and shy,
he felt the playground of life swamp him
so he shrank, creating a gulf of distance,
away from noise and the carnival of people.
He was aware of the room’s ticking clock,
the pavement through the soles of his feet,
the quality of the fabric next to his skin,
the need for companionship of calm and quiet.
He valued his imagination when looking at life,
learning to read situations and people.
He was called shy, or sensitive, when young
but others, more astute, thought him gifted;
he just thought of himself as …different.
Some sought to bully, causing internal distress
but he rarely backed down, until after the event,
whereupon he suffered scrutinising self-analysis.
As he aged, ‘sensitivity’ was something he polished,
not a weakness, no, in fact… a valuable strength.
He no longer felt flawed, however he did feel pity
for others living a life on the surface of existence,
never in tune with the depths of the arts
or indeed the nature of nature.
He shrugged away shyness, removed remoteness
and learned how to breathe
until finally he had a respect for himself,
an understanding of others… and that gulf diminished.
He now smiles as he thinks back through the years
at the metamorphosis he has undergone;
a young boy into how he now sees himself
……….an assertive, inquisitive butterfly! Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
Grandad’s Domain
The shed sits heavy, sulking in the drowsiness
of a summer’s waning afternoon.
It had been Granddad's before he died
but now from the shaded, shuffling shadows
that shush the sheltered garden,
its loneliness reaches out to the boy.
It pulls, tugs at his guilt-filled absence
until he slinks down through the greenery
to stand at attention outside its wooded frame.
It had been Grandad’s domain, his citadel,
built from leftover bits of wood and insulation
collected, purloined from…whenever, wherever.
Respectively, the boy sneaks the door ajar,
unprepared for the shock that shakes him!
Memories of Grandad unfold themselves everywhere:
chisel, saw, Swedish workbench, unfinished projects
but most of all….Grandad’s flat cap,
angling from a hook like an ageing photograph.
The boy’s skin tightens, his breath narrows
as irreplaceable memories skip into his head;
the alchemy of playfulness, tomfoolery, inventiveness.
Then Grandad’s voice resounds inside the boy’s head,
“Remember let your imagination think for itself
occasionally dream of left-handed bars of chocolate.”
The boy folds with emotion as he remembers
how his words were shy around others … never Grandad.
He encouraged, sparked a smile that polished him up
like a warming pat on his back, adding a phrase like,
“We’re two forks sharing the same plate, mate!”
And all, always seemed well.
The boy departs with a rucksack of renewed memories;
a resolve to undertake a new project in Grandad’s shed.
He touches his nose remembering Grandad’s favourite saying,
“Aye, the nose knows, you know!”
And he smiles himself all the way down the garden,
Grandad’s essence living forever in his thoughts.
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
I Tried to Unlearn
……. his name , his face, his memory
but each morning they kept resurfacing;
rubber ringed feelings that would not sink
no matter how hard I pushed down.
So I journeyed to places
that had rooted our relationship:
The park where the broad-shouldered oak
unwrapped delicacies of intimate memories
then leaning in much closer
it shared a consolatory shadow.
The river that coiled past
churned up affectionate thoughts
then rippled onwards to twist back
with a scornful smirk that made fun of me.
The café where he teased
about expressoing our shared ideas
and consolidating coffee compatibility.
Then on the butterfly wings of symmetry
our relationship seemed to fly to new heights
but was I another Icarus on a solo flight?
So the past that I had plucked at
offered no signs of warning, no signals of regret;
sadly the present, the here and now,
yields no guidance on how to….. forget.
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
The House on Lake Maggiore
The house on Lake Maggiore was reality, a physical truth,
my imagination became the artist.
The day has become a deckchair, gently folding itself up
as my walk leads me into a discreet street
where respectful houses tip their roofs
and lampposts bow with good manners.
My path dwindles away as I reach the street’s end
but an essence pulls me on….pulls me closer
then the house steps out to meet me…..not greet me!
At a glance, the property appears imposing,
broad shouldered, an impressive physique,
but as my eyes scan the façade
a different opinion is soon being relayed.
The walls are damp stained, ivy scrawled,
guttering hangs like broken finger nails,
tiles cling to the moss for support
and shattered shutters stare numbly out.
The only faint splash of colour,
a sapling tree atop a lofty balcony,
waving like a green flag of surrender.
The house has long since lost its hug of home;
no warmth of a family to bring it to life.
I now edge closer to the house,
as close as my closeness allows.
Of the house, a declared medical opinion would be:
the pulse is weak, the heart broken;
a fulsome financial advisor’s advice:
the pension contributions, too meagre.
My contribution offers a sense that
the soul of the house has long since fled the nest.
Haltingly, my eyes now tumble away
to fall upon the disquieting gardens
where trees hang about looking for trouble
and the bushes gather together
sternly watching to see what the wind blows in.
Then stitched here and there
lie the demonically rooted mandrake flowers
deceptively offering up their purple hands of poison.
Now my imagination strides in
dragging with it a stark image
of the dark breaking its claws on me.
Then fear flies in with ebony thoughts
to shake, sharpen and shiver my spine
while my courage, my mettle, my fortitude….
lies whimpering somewhere near my toenails!
A tree suddenly shivers, a bird takes flight;
fluttered-flushed from its hiding.
Then my memory takes flight too
only to resurface when I am distanced from the house.
There I watch the evening sky cut itself open
to lie bleeding scarlet all around.
All around… except upon the abandoned house
where the sky lies flat, resolutely grey and sad.
Yes there’s a step between reality and imagination
where creativity likes to frolic, to play;
the house on Lake Maggiore was reality, a physical truth,
my imagination offered empathy
and a spectral encounter!
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2024
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