Tag Archives: Poetry

Seasons – Poem

This is one of a series of poems, written by my Grandmother, that represent a portrait of her childhood in Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, places and people she loved who are, for the most part, no longer with us. She dedicates each and every poem to her daughters, and has kindly given me permission to share them with you all, enjoy…

 

Seasons

There were rich pickings in the hedgerows then,

Where the blackberries crowded out the sloe

And hop vines twined about the wild rosehips

And hawthorn berries cast a scarlet glow.

 

To the music of birdsong we would pick

Our fill throughout the season; then the mist

of autumn would sparkle like jewels, from

Cobwebs flung down with a prodigal fist.

 

On branches where the fruit had lately been,

And through the winter, feasting on the good

Rich harvest of the summer, round fires of logs,

Pale summer ghosts curled from the smould’ring wood.

 

© Dorothy Davis-Sellick 1998 onwards

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Harvest Service – Poem

This is one of a series of poems, written by my Grandmother, that represent a portrait of her childhood in Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, places and people she loved who are, for the most part, no longer with us. She dedicates each and every poem to her daughters, and has kindly given me permission to share them with you all, enjoy…

 

Harvest Service

Welcoming us, the rector said,

“I wish that we could see you here

More often than just once a year, at harvest.”

 

Avoiding his eyes, we looked around

At the results of a year’s work

Piled high above the altar. The best

 

Of all that we had worked for

Throughout a lonely year – fruit and

Vegetables, and a tall ladder, which

 

Entwined with flowers and greenery,

Reached up the wall and raised our eyes

To where the autumn sunlight cast a rich

 

Jewelled pattern through the old stained-glass.

I wondered why we’d come that day.

Were our motives truly estimable –

 

And were we thinking of Our Lord

Or did a memory stir, deep down

Of Gods more ancient and implacable?

 

© Dorothy Davis-Sellick 1998 onwards

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V E Day At Chickerell – Poem

This is one of a series of poems, written by my Grandmother, that represent a portrait of her childhood in Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, places and people she loved who are, for the most part, no longer with us. She dedicates each and every poem to her daughters, and has kindly given me permission to share them with you all, enjoy…

 

 

V E Day At Chickerell

I remember V E Day. Some of the

Ladies from the village organised

A celebration. In a field high up

Above the village, they realised

 

A childhood dream. A mound of furniture

Higher than the houses round about,

Or so it seemed, and seated on the top,

An effigy of Hitler. No doubt

 

Their happiness was touched with sadness

For sons and husbands who would not

Return, and lost years, when children grew

Without a father’s care. But see

 

The baker’s wife proudly upon the

back of an old lorry. Dressed as Churchill,

Complete with huge cigar, her hands raised in

Victorious salute. Nothing will

 

Erase the thrill as that gigantic pyre

Flared up to set alight again a world grown

Used to darkness. And for one night, at least,

Fire cauterised our fears, and hopes were sown.

 

© Dorothy Davis-Sellick 1998 onwards

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After Morning Service – Poem

This is one of a series of poems, written by my Grandmother, that represent a portrait of her childhood in Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, places and people she loved who are, for the most part, no longer with us. She dedicates each and every poem to her daughters, and has kindly given me permission to share them with you all, enjoy…

After Morning Service

After morning service we would walk for miles;

Outside the village, over stiles

And up a softly sloping hill

Where violets hid beneath the hedge, till,

From the top, we could look out across the trees.

To where the ocean skittered in the breeze.

And if there ever had been any doubt –

What, we had wondered, was it all about –

It soon dissolved itself, faced with the drama

Of that supernal panorama.

 

© Dorothy Davis-Sellick 1998 onwards

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Night Sounds – Poem

This is one of a series of poems, written by my Grandmother, that represent a portrait of her childhood in Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, places and people she loved who are, for the most part, no longer with us. She dedicates each and every poem to her daughters, and has kindly given me permission to share them with you all, enjoy…

 

Night Sounds

 

Nights were never lonely then at their house,

For all night long steam engines shunted

In the railway yards beyond the park,

The hollow clang of buffers blunted

By the distance: across the play park

Where I paddled in the pool and high

Up in the air would swing on summer days;

And through the trees, whose restless leaves would sigh

As if in answer. I never feared

The dark or loneliness in those days;

Untroubled mind absorbing what might come

Not yet bewildered by life’s tangled maze.

 

© Dorothy Davis-Sellick 1998 onwards

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The Old Church – Poem

This is one of a series of poems, written by my Grandmother, that represent a portrait of her childhood in Thomas Hardy’s Wessex, places and people she loved who are, for the most part, no longer with us. She dedicates each and every poem to her daughters, and has kindly given me permission to share them with you all, enjoy…

 

The Old Church

Old churches fascinated us.

Not so much the content, as it were –

We knew God was up there above

The sky, and down below, set to lure

 

The unwary, old Nick himself –

But in the churches round about, we

Blended with our past, the old knights

Even kings, in marbled prayer, the key

 

To open every mystery and myth;

Ethelred, lying there at Wimbourne

And various Salisburys and such.

But, when we were young, we did not scorn

 

The humbler buildings. One night at

Portesham, we left the hall where we

Were dancing, and sat in darkness

In the nearby church. we could not see

 

Much more than a suggestion of

Slightly less dense blackness where windows

Ought to be. We did not know what

To expect would happen, or what foes

 

Should lurk within the house of God;

But when the wheezing clock struck midnight

We bolted, though I never knew

The true reason for our craven flight.

 

Was it fear of undead spirits

At this bewitching hour? Or just then,

Did we remember that my mother

Had expected us since half-past ten?

 

© Dorothy Davis-Sellick 1998 onwards

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A brilliant ode from a fantastic writer, well worth a read

Slummy single mummy

A good friend is this season’s must have,
Like a new pair of red footless tights.
You need a good mixture of textures,
Include pastels and some neon brights.

Great mates are a key wardrobe basic,
Friends are this winter’s new black.
Do read the care labels well though,
No receipts so you can’t take them back.

This is the product of my evening at The Steady Table writing group, where I am under pressure to write creatively, and not just reply to emails…

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