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Best Poems Written by Rachel Treacher

Below are the all-time best Rachel Treacher poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

Winter Solstice

It is the longest night.
We tread gently through the wood,
Feather moss and beech leaves
Amber soft under foot 
Dampen and muffle the rustle of our winter coats.
There's a snap of the twig 
And a flutter of woodpigeons lift,
As if applauding the return of the sun.
We watched them fly 
Through the crackled glaze of bare branches -

“As our lanterns burn bright, 
Our feet seek safe ground.”

We bow low to the Holly,
 King of the winter,
Bejewelled with berries and crowned in thorns, 
Hosting a chiming of wrens,
Who herald our journeying
In bursts of sing-song - 
“Fa-la-la-la-la!” 

Onward through the valley 
We step into the footprints of darklings, 
Deer, fox and badger.
Cross pilgrim paths where flints glint, 
As if iridescent tiny tombstones 
For the butterflies and dragonflies of summers long passed.

“Our lanterns shine bright,
Our feet find safe ground, 
We walk without fear 
In the dark all around.”

At the heart of the wood 
We gather near the great oak,
And together we light a fire. 
Watch as ribbons of flame
Caught from flashes of sparks,
Illuminate our faces in the cinder glow of midwinter.
Alongside us, pixie-cup lichens wassail a promise of spring 
An oath as unbreakable as our human cups of plastic and tin.
With mulled apples, honeyed and spiced 
We welcome light in.
Feast upon pastries of fruits in a marzipan of delights.
Feeling blessed with good cheer, 
We start the new year.

Driving home in the car,
From the road I see stars of wonder.
I see trees a-glisten with tinsel.
Windows lit golden under twinkling eaves.
I am sure I can hear, and the wind whispers, “listen” 
As I opened the door,
An echo once more, held soft in the still of night –

“May your light shine bright,
 May your feet walk safe ground,
 May you seek without fear,
 May you like what you found.
 Stay near to each other,
 Offer comfort and cheer,
 Come back to the woods,
 Each solstice, each year.”

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

Circus

Children with candy floss and wands of bright plastic,
Anticipation of the big top fantastic -
“Affordable family fun!”
The circus has come to town.
A carnival and a frisson of people,
The smell of the diesel,
It's magical and visceral – 
Intense.

There's a girl in hoop earrings
Stands ready and steady and poised at the entrance,
Beckons our queue, guides us on through.
Later in sky blue and diamonds,
She’ll balance the line 
Of the high tight rope walk.

To the right, a big burly man,
A wandering vendor of neon lit sabres -
“As you've never seen him before!”
Will throw a precision of knives at his wife. 
Twenty years she has whirled in her satin and modesty chiffon,
On her own wheel of fortune.

To the left, there's a girl in an ordinary sweatshirt,
Wide spangled hairband, at a stand where pink sugar is spun.
Soon, she'll be spectacular!
Twirling on ribbons and ropes.
Belief suspended on the thrill of her peril, 
Her grace.
We’ll be spellbound.

Sounds surround us as we take our seats ringside,
The beautiful boy selling programmes
Will descend, 
Perform a daredevil act.
Our necks strained as we look 
To the infinite blue of a tarpaulin sky -
Trapeze artist high -
He'll fly and he'll never grow older.
Dream big.

And then come the men, 
Louder and bolder,
Selling bottomless buckets of popcorn and pop,
Sweet, salted and fizzy,
Between sets, they'll be busy.
A cascade of jugglers and clowns.
The big gestures of jesters and tumbling chaos -
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!”
And too soon the showtime is over,

We spill back out into the park,
Blinking into the afternoon,
Rare and recount the fleeting visions of awe and wonder.
Tomorrow the circus will have packed up and gone.
Leaving behind just a fairy circle of flattened grass
And the ghosts of muddy tyre tracks.

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

The Squirrels' Branch Meeting

I was just drifting off,
A quiet snooze on the bench
Under the tree,
When I heard:

"I hereby declare this meeting open!
The frosts have given way,
The hush of winter loosens,
Spring has stepped up for Lady Day."

A busy chatter of squirrels start to gather
For the branch meeting.
Trees unfurling into bud
Yield a promise of nest eggs
Soon to pay dividends
For the nimble and resourceful 
Tenants of the Woodland Guild.

There's a quiver of quills of feathery tails
As the squirrels brush up on stocks and shares -
Who's invested the what-s and the where-s?
Secret maps drawn in ledgers of lichens.

Arboreal advice given,
"We must maintain balance,
Reduce risk, but stay agile."
The squirrels of this midland bank listen,
They bustle and bristle.

Ears pricked, steady their nerve
Ready to go,
"Remember, time is your friend,
Impulse, your foe!"

Each squirrel a proud custodian
Of assets, ground hidden,
Hedgefunds.
A treasury of nuts and seed
Saved through thrift
In times of need,
Dug deep in the vaults of the earth.

Beech, pine, hazel and oak.
"We sit in these trees of plenty
Because of what squirrel folk planted before."
Then, with a scamper and flicker of tails,
They were gone.

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

Lexi the Librarian

Every Wednesday lunchtime
Lexie temporarily leaves
the deafening silence of the multi-storey library
to swim at the local pool. 
The echo and splish-splash
of the mothers and the toddlers, lane swimmers
washes through her busy mind
whirring with words and stories,
whispers of change;
shhhhhhh.
Librarian Lexie undresses,
emerges poolside, transformation unveiled
drawing looks as a painted lady
she remains Incognito.
Incredible pictures of mermaids and flowers and elves,
illustrations of her many selves;
for by day Lexie tends to the library shelves -
books to be catalogued and listed.
For Lexi loves orders and systems
yet by night, stories take flight,
she's an author of fantasy fictions -
prophecies and predictions.
As Lexie swims
her pictures through the prism of the water shape shift
and her mind drifts to the publisher,
the man who entangled her heart with his way with words.
Avoiding alliteration amplified his love language,
promised her a future in literature,
in cursive script he bewitched her,
he was wanting to brand her.
But Lexie read between his lines,
she found him grasping and greedy,
a dance with a demon,
and she told him, “we're not on the same page”.
And enraged she drew him
between the devil and the deep blue sea
just above her right knee
illustrated as an apostrophe -
a reminder that he was just too possessive.

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

Beryl’s Assorted Biscuits, A care home tale

Humming as she arranges an assortment of biscuits 
On pastel green plates, 
(Viennese waltz) 

Beryl checks the clock ticking softly, three thirty,
“Come along, Shannon”, 
Her young charge steps in alongside her 
As Beryl works the care home rooms.
Teas and coffees, counterclockwise,
In the waltz of the afternoon tea trolley. 

Beryl choreographs and guides as they go,
“Now, remember Reenie is partial 
to the vintage charm of a custard cream,
Whereas Doris will go for a fig roll – 
Sturdy with a hidden sweetness, 
That surprises,
And Edie will tell you her stories twice - 
Will want for the Twix.” 

Shannon pours teas into proper cups with proper saucers 
As they glide over to Ballroom Blanche,
“Danced through life haven't you, love”, 
Beryl adds in whisper, 
“Blanche can seem a bit crisp around the edges,
But she's really quite a softee – sweet,
She leans to Viennese whirl”.

Shannon adds two sugars,
Twirls the spoon in the cup 
As she hands silent Marjorie 
in her beige cardy, 
A malted milk.

They reverse turn to the sun filled lounge.
Jammy dodgers with heart-shaped windows 
Are shared by Norma and Dierdre 
Receiving bouquets of babbies in bonnets,
Children gathered 
to see their great nannies.

And by the window looking out, 
Connie, 
For whom standards never slip,
In wig, pearls, red lip, 
Takes the Florentine of glamour.

Young Shannon turns in awe to Beryl asking,
“How do you remember who has what?” 
Beryl smiles, and with mock curtsy, 
She blushes
“What am I to say?      
It's like I have a gift.”

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

Waiting at the train station cafe

We are sitting at a table at the café by the station,
We are watching people passing,
We are guessing destinations.
We are waiting for our order,
Chatting mother with a daughter.
And we're talking of the old man
As he's waiting at the crossing.
We are wondering his journey
Of the route he may be taking -
A corduroy curiosity in his thin brown coat,
Plastic bags that carry string and other things of note.
Then all of a sudden, he is wandering our direction,
Charming and addressing us as “Ladies”,
Pretending he is thinking we are sisters,
Indulging him, we're happy to be listeners.

He has a sunny disposition, 
Though he is saying of his vision
That his eyes are getting cloudy -
He must go see an optician.
And he's telling us his stories of his Sunday-ing allotments,
Hearing of his winning, echoes of past glories.
Cultivating prizes for the growing and the showing of his champions -
Centurion onions, parsnips gladiator,
Okra, bhut bhindi, coriander.

Then purposefully he's pulling from his pocket, from his wallet 
A worn photo of a young man looking back at us.
His is sharing how they wanted for their boy they named Ishaan,
A boy, with his head in the clouds -
To be reaching for the stars and the sun.
Without pausing he is telling us scholarship was won.
Astrophysics he was studying.
Careering off to NASA, space systems engineering.

But Ishaan is soon returning
From the Californian dreaming -
Yearning to be grounded in the rhythms of the seasons.
Coming back to his roots.
Following the passing of his mother and reconnecting with his father
In the routines that are gardening.
Working quiet soils, where seeds are just beginning
As the world keeps on spinning.
To stand still awhile.

Then he is leaving, he is gone.
And in silence we are finishing our coffees and paying for our bill.
Feeling we have travelled,
Though, we were only sitting still.

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

Taking the train

It’s 6.43am, 
I’m awaiting my train.
I tune into the station,
Listening to the invisible spring birds 
Belting a Beltane call and response;
A syncopation in freewheeling jazz tracks.
Dipperty-dee, dipperty-dar,
Dipperty-dee, dipperty-dar,

I alight the shining lines,
Slide into my seat.
Watch the sun seep up and over rooves,
The rumble and tumble of the dustbin lorry,
Barking dogs, 
People in a hurry,
Mobile but fixated by scrolling truths -
Reels of what's new, what's circumstantial,
And rolling news of worlds financial.
Woo-ah woo!

I'm borrowed fleeting glances
Of dolls house windows of toy town houses,
The click and flick of kettles
As the busyness of the new day blinks in.
Full steam ahead!
Clickerty-click, clickety-clack, 
Clickety-click, clickety-clack.

Then a pause.
A beeperty-beep, and a whoosh of the doors
As they slide open.
An improvisation of passengers board,
Spilling into the carriages with costa-lot coffees,
Half full.
Commuting, suited and booted into the city.
Electricity!
With a murmuration, they're away from the station.
Dipperty-dee, dipperty-dar,
Dipperty-dee, dipperty-dar,

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

Ode to Found Kitten

My kitten's four paws
Hide claws in his feet.
If his feet are on pause,
He is soundly asleep.

If he then starts to purr
In a deep warm soft rumble,
His engine is idling,
Ready for trouble.

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

The Late Jean

In our office, do you remember our Jean?
She's insist to be late was obscene
Once delayed for a booking,
She had crossed without looking,
Now a bridge marks where she had once been.

Details | Rachel Treacher Poem

Woodland Jewellery Quarter

Come with me.
I’m telling you child,
In midsummer along the canal,
Industrial waters run still.
Tread softly and you may just hear
A hammering on tiny anvils - 
A guild of workshops cut in miniature,
The secret unseen labour of the woodland jewellery quarter.

Child! Here, wrought iron branches of the hawthorn
Line the towpaths with clasps, hooks, and buckles,
Burnished by the soot-black beak of the raven.
Come child! Go peek under the bramble -
Seek the woodlouse in his apron of gunmetal leather
Polishing a cluster of cabochon blackberries
With his apprentice, the buff-tailed bumble. 

Come with me, child!
See field mice fashion acorn cups into chalices,
Plated and silvered by moonlit splashes.
Hunched, eye huge through his jeweller’s loupe,
The toad crafts and cuts knots of amethyst lavender,
Heavy in the scent of summer.
Come child, come further along! 
A short-clawed otter is panning for gold,
Glimmered reflections of the melting sun
To be passed to the badger for smelting,
And forging signet rings for the kings of old.

Child, be dazzled as the glazier dragonfly flashes by!
She snips fragments of light,
Soldering them into stained-glass windows for fairy cathedrals.
Come look, child!
Below in the hollow of a stump -
A loveliness of ladybirds enamel tin boxes
To hold trinkets of hope, and lockets for treasured memories.

Now listen, child,
For the frogs in their pearl-buttoned waistcoats,
Record a precision of pocket watch orders,
Fragile timepieces of dandelion clocks,
Worked by the blind mole in his escapement under the soil.
Child, I’m telling ya,
Here there are neither tickets nor tabs.
For in this workshop of this tiny world,
Everything is priceless.

Best Poems Written by Rachel Treacher

Winter Solstice

Circus

The Squirrels' Branch Meeting

Lexi the Librarian

Beryl’s Assorted Biscuits, A care home tale

Waiting at the train station cafe

Taking the train

Ode to Found Kitten

The Late Jean

Woodland Jewellery Quarter

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