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Ian Souter Poem
The Journey
……….. had been arduous,
the path had been cramped,
the afternoon was shortening
and my destination crept closer….
I walked on.
The path still strolled ahead of me
and no matter how fast I travelled -
that fact never seemed to alter.
I pushed on, clumps of clouds bundling above;
now an acting audience to my every step.
Perhaps comparing my journey,
and what was to come, with past travellers?
That path decided to smooth around a corner
where hills suddenly reared to mountains
that soared, towered and appeared to glare down
like gigantic, herculean sentinels.
And there, sitting at the base of these verdant giants,
sat the house, alone and seemingly lonely!
The path was bored and wandered off,
so I offered a thank you nod for services rendered,
and ambled towards my destination, the house.
It now winked at me with luminous whiteness
and a spark of vivid red - offered a door.
I drew closer, distracted as I noted smoke
slithering out of a little finger of chimney.
I watched entertained as it twisted, spiralled
and slowly thinned away as if searching
a new chimney to inhabit for the evening.
My thoughts now turned to sense the house,
sense its emotion, sense its mood
when suddenly that stroke of red…. scraped slowly open
and a worn shoe with woollen hand edged into view!
They both stopped as if hesitating, knowing their place,
allowing the mountains to move closer, to gloom down...
as a distant memory shivered and rushed my spine….
I stood waiting!
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2024
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Ian Souter Poem
The Lone Tree
The autumn day had been muffled up
in thick scarf and rainproof jacket
until darkness, countryside darkness,
clambered gradually over the horizon;
silence, stillness obediently at its heel.
Then black the night, wild the sea
and the lone tree stood tall,
branches muscled, trunk heavily rooted,
protective of its remaining leaves.
Next morning sprung up; a multi-coloured umbrella!
It began 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 was the wind
whistling a perky rendition of, “Good Golly, Miss Molly!”
Then pulling and pushing at the tree's branches
it plucked at that helpless, hapless, hued canopy
until only a few leaves remained; until only.. one remained.
A trapeze artist swinging from a high branch.
The lone tree now stared helplessly towards the hills
where its cousins, the evergreens, held arms
as they danced gaily down a staggered slope
while a well-trodden path huffed and puffed
its way up in the opposite direction.
Then beyond, the sky sat heavily on the sea
as though resting on a cold, blue chaise longue
while that wayward wind whipped across
a mustard coloured scarf of a beach
tugging relentlessly at the weak and helpless.
Meanwhile above the lone tree,
clouds sketched themselves in dark grey
and watched as the wind tired to an old man,
gnawing away with its bared, toothless gums
until finally that lone leaf.. succumbed.
Later, the hills stepped backwards into the fading light
leaving the lone tree standing naked
while woody, thinned limbs swayed 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
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, like nature’s magician,
magically removes it’s black disguise
allowing early morning light to reveal its gift -
an awakening beach washed by sea and sun.
Suddenly 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
as they wave the chattering carriages on their way.
Speedily the train scribbles its way forward
reaching for the distance where a town awaits,
a town where streets and cars are a working toy set.
Meanwhile, 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
has turned the page into the afternoon,
the day loses it 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 new scenery to entertain its passengers
while still 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
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
The Bitter Bite of Night!
Night creeps in sotto voce
melding with the mellowing village life.
Night, a seemingly mischievous cat,
slips along incognito in its prankish mood,
teasing any light that tries to define her.
Night now casts darkness into distant corners,
lassos slumbering, innocent buildings;
trick roping them with thinly, stretched shadows
until, from above, an inquisitive watery beam
reaches down, searching out this inky intruder;
a cold chuckle, a harsh response
and a claw-shaped moon is chased from the sky.
But feline Night is not what…
or who she seems!
For this Night… is dark in dishonesty,
is deep rooted in deceitfulness,
as suddenly she transforms from…
playful to heartless
and ruthlessly turns on all around her
swallowing greedily, chewing speedily
until nothing remains…. as it was.
Homely houses, strolling streets, loitering lanes
are veiled in darkness, smudged into obscurity,
until Night draws her black curtains – light-tight,
then elbows of hills and fingers of trees disappear,
stolen away by this dark demoness!
Night, in time, flows out through the village
leaving behind an unwanted guest
- the old man of winter - Jack Frost!
He crunches in with a harsh discipline,
refrigerating glances, icicled hands and teeth,
to set about his task of winterizing the village.
Later, when Night has removed her ebony cape,
morning nervously and tentatively edges in,
gradually leaking light all around to unveil…
winter’s work…..the bitter bite of night where:
Frigid, rigid trees with frozen arms
cling to the side of frosted, dusted hills,
plants lie glacially in a line, lifeless
as if struck down during a futile escape
then, in contrast, the beauty of a spider’s web
necklaced across a frozen, floating fence.
But now morning has a sharp edged voice
as footsteps snap, crack and crunch
while a car shouts its way into the distance,
winter biting and snapping at its heels (or wheels),
until suddenly it begins gasping with anxiety
gradually slide-gliding its way to a lasting halt.
There it sits exhausted; struggling for breath
while spluttering grey ghosts into the ether.
Winter poetry has written itself harshly
across a hardened countryside,
scratching, scribbling and scrawling
itself into every iced corner;
winter graffiti at its cold-hearted, bitter best!
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
The Shed
...was Granddad's before he died.
And now its loneliness reached out to the boy
from the shaded, shuffling shadows
that shushed the sheltered garden.
They pulled, they tugged at his guilt-filled absence
until he slink-slunked through the greenery,
standing to attention outside its wooded frame.
It had been Grandad’s domain, his citadel,
built from leftover bits of wood and insulation
collected, or purloined, from…wherever.. whenever.
Slowly, respectively, the boy sneak-peaked the door ajar,
slipping inside, stepping into the window’s filtered light
but he was unprepared for the shock that shook him!
Memories of Grandad unfolded themselves everywhere
his tools: ruler, chisel, plane, saw and his Swedish workbench,
the unfinished projects and most of all…..Grandad’s flat cap;
it angled from a hook like an ageing photograph.
The boy sensed his skin tighten, his breath narrow
as precious memories skipped into his head;
the alchemy of playfulness, tomfoolery, inventiveness
that forged and built those ‘togetherness’ wooden creations.
Then Grandad’s voice resounded inside the boy’s head,
“Aye well I’m a little bit different lad.
I like to imagine left-handed bars of chocolate
and he’d touch his nose and add, “The nose knows, you know!”
The boy folded up with emotion as he remembered
how his words were shy around others … never Grandad.
He encouraged, praised, sparkled a smile that polished you up
like a warming pat on the back, adding a phrase like,
“We’re two forks sharing the same plate, mate!”
And then all was well.
The boy now left the shed with a rucksack of renewed memories
and a resolve to undertake a new project in Grandad’s shed.
He touched his nose whispering, “The nose knows, you know!”
then remembered Grandad’s favourite saying,
“What do great minds do?” He could hear Grandad ask.
And this time the boy replied, “They think…… for themselves!”
And he smiled himself all the way down the garden;
Grandad’s creative essence would live forever in his thoughts.
Ian Souter April, 25
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
A Study in Character
My aunt….
wears jewellery that winks as she walks
and she always has a sharp, shivery look
that you pay attention to …just in case!
She makes the world around her nervous
and I can hear it in my own voice;
it’s as though I have a secret
that she is about to discover,
one she won’t like!
My aunt….
has eyes that are shadows,
dark, hidden…
stretching to intimidation
because it’s always difficult to tell
what lies in shadows!
She is also an opposite;
anger lines track her forehead
while a narrow smile rides his lips.
My aunt….
always looks pale and cold
as if she has never been warm in her life
while her voice is a footprint in the sand,
light but very noticeable.
My voice?
Well I keep it prepared.
I take my words out and polish them
before saying anything in front of her.
My aunt….
likes to say to people,
“Are you listening
or are you listening
to what I am NOT saying?”
Then she would stare
as if it is a challenge,
her jib offering a sense of menace
lips chewing, fingers fisting.
My aunt…
sometimes stands very close to me,
a face dancing with twitches,
temples creased, crinkled and cracked
and I stand there as intelligent
as my left shoe, the one with the hole in it.
Then suddenly I feel highly strung
as she plucks me like a guitar
that has over anxious strings.
My aunt…
I remember the first time
she asked me something about myself
and, suddenly, I couldn’t find my voice.
So I sent a speeding bucket
deep down to my inner well
and I hauled up a meritless reply.
Yes my words are like me…
shy!
My aunt….
yes my aunt…
is a very unpleasant headache
dressed up in clothes….and jewellery!
Ian Souter
10/12/24
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2024
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Ian Souter Poem
She Wanted More!
He shut the car door with a hush;
she closed her side of the car with a statement.
He slipped into his seat belt in a measured sense;
she slapped-snapped her seat belt on.. in relief.
He stroked the gear lever, a reflection of lifestyle;
she touched the automatic lever, as if a passenger.
The passenger in a car; a passenger in their marriage.
They were opposites that had attracted.
Initially, their ying-yang was balanced, a tightrope,
promoting harmony in a romantic relationship,
ebbing and flowing depending on their needs
until the ebb flowed away and all was stagnant.
The divorce papers were soon signed;
the relationship filed under no longer viable.
She started her engine with an electric whisper
turning for a last look at the house,
he crept forward checking the road was clear.
They both left in different directions.
She drove off first, and fast, to a new country,
he just drove off in a car which underlined personality,
solid, stable and economical; poached eggs for tea!
She needed and wanted more!
Her daily luggage had been full of
frustration, resentment, percolated sadness.
So from the silence of anonymity
she had shouted and was heard.
Three months later, she hoped her new suitcase
would be packed with excitement, variety and style.
Was she excited or frightened?
she was neither, she was both!
Ian Souter
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2025
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Ian Souter Poem
Buttered Fields
It was early when she was tickled awake
as light eased under the eaves
to trickle through a sigh of curtains,
to whisper across the bedroom floor,
to nudgingly nestle beside her…..and beam!
Outside the sun had buttered the fields,
mellowing, yellowing the crisp, morning dew.
The girl awoke wearing playful eyes and a zestful imagination
wishing for a form of storm that might offer up jinks and winks
but the morning was in the process of writing its own story.
Capital letters of trees stood tight and tall
beside commas of bushes, question marks of shrubbery,
sprinkled with colourful, exclamation marks of flowers
and, dotted here and there, insected full stops and apostrophes.
Yes, her day was already penned and punctuated.
Soon, she was washed, dressed and toothpasted
And, with a hip and a hop, she sprung outside her house.
All around the morning sang, “All things bright and beautiful!”
while Mother Nature had her skipping rope out
and was creating mischievous merrymaking.
The wind began huffing and puffing all before it
and after juggling a few dustbins it decided to show off,
performing three cartwheels and a backward double-flip
into a one-handed handstand, finishing with a vault without fault
to win the gold medal in the morning’s gymnastics competition.
The girl now watched, waited and wondered what was what?
So with trees staggering and the wind waggling
the morning now danced merrily in front of her,
and with a giggle of sunlight, an extra wiggle of wind,
she curtsied, partnering the morning in its frolicsome entertainment.
Suddenly and sharply the sun, like stage lighting,
flared through the clouds looking for something lost,
while the road’s yellow lines appeared to hold hands
as they strolled side by side into the distance;
the girl followed, excitement shivering her sleeve.
Ian Souter 9/2024
Copyright © Ian Souter | Year Posted 2024
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