The Mirror River - William Guy (G)

The rustling white horses

Clash with the curving rock.

As the water flows it picks up

Debris like a taxi and

Drops it off.

The trees shadow the water

Like tall men to a baby.

It always changes from start

To source, flows, trickles, stalls,

Then the slowed down river

Snores to sleep.

Woods by the River - Eddie Grierson (S)

The trees surround me,

Shading the light with their long, brown arms.

The birds, invisible, high above me in their bright blue Kingdon above, chirping down at me.

Sycamore, maple, ash and lime

And the apple tang of wood sorrel,

Almost untouched wilderness.

Almost.

For here I come, the sturdy wooden bridge leads Unto pastures green and grazed by sheep.

The gurgling water, twisting through boulders, Piled onto sand, a miniature rocky raft.

Jackdaws cooing in their all too numerous flocks, And swallows snapping at the midges.

Now the avian kingdom does reveal itself.

Now.

A hoverfly, which I have a passion for, That marvellow wasp-mimic.

The perfect yellow-black stripes

So no bird here dare consider "tasty snack".

Tits and finches in their bright tuxedoes, Blues, greens, yellows, blacks and reds.

To pick out friend from rival,

Species from Species.

Yes.

This rocky, beer like river seems

A place to look for wolf or bear.

But alas, come now, in Britain

They are no longer there.

For man, smug man, thinks he to be unique But he is just another mammal, another creature, And though he like or not He is the most destructive of them all.

And so they're gone, wolf and bear in Scotland, But others have, worldwide, already gone.

Extinct, forever, and so, it is our World That we must conserve.

Not us, our World

That we must conserve.

Untitled - Alastair Spencer-Nairn (G)

The trees with their arms surround me

With a scent of pure wilderness

As we run through the forest at the

Bottom of the hill.

Watching the frogs leap,

And the birds take flight,

And the occasional squirrel as it

Clambers up the trees.

Then the clearing is gone

Like a picture on display and it is

Only a faint memory in the

Days that lie ahead.

Down by the Riverside - Alastair Spencer-Nairn

All you can hear is the shouts

And complaints from the buckets of water, The tweeting of the birds in the Evergreen trees.

The rocks, as they make

A stand, alone, quiet, waiting,

A one man army.

The light bouncing off the free flowing water And the decision of the screaming children As they jump from one rock To another, screaming with joy Until they find the slippy, Non-grippy rocks and make A fall.

The birds

Are now silent,

Respectful of the body afloat.

Hoped Out

A roaring in the ears

Rapid heartbeat, breath held

tight

The cold claw held at bay

Steady - strong.

The shadows lengthen -

The generators are on

"If the hospital can cope so can I"

Rips make themselves felt.

All else has failed;

Faith now pounds through veins

Unable to grasp the heart:

Weary and fading.

Gone.

Silence smothered like a

devastating mist,

the grey creatures lurked

as I uncontrollably sunk into discomfort,

the rigid stale bread and the stench of petrol

wriggled out of my rucksack.

A frosty chill shuddered through my body,

the cold bit my face till it was luminous red 

                           I was a target.

A sharp crack echoed through the ice as I felt my loneliness disperse.

Glacial blue eyes lit up the white sheet.

Surrounded like a harmless tender piece of prey.

There was no hope here.

Past Hoping

A sun beam on a summer afternoon

squeezing through

the mistaken gap in the curtains.

But this glorious optimism

enlightens the

smallest

fragment

of dust suspended                                                      in the air.

This bright ray soon becomes a shadow.

The falseness of dreams - harshness of reality.

The darkening depression

creeping up fast like death -

but dying

knowing you're going to heaven.