THE HOUSE ON THE HILL.. (My new poem inspired by Michelle Underwood's artwork...)

 The House On The Hill…

(Inspired by Michelle Underwood’s artwork…)

The invasive layers of snow, the icy charcoal waters intruding

Across the remoteness of a challenging landscape

And the dark, shadowy lunge of woodland are smitten and harassed

By infused and spattered blended blues, and hues of turquoise, even 

As they hint of the drama in the sky’s winter light.

The delicate strokes of wisps of smoke, draw the gaze, exuding

From an insignificant house, a warm haven in which to escape

The seasonal storms, the travails of life and the mind distressed.

 I thought then of the traditional words about gathering winter fuel on the Feast of Stephen

And a poor man, a peasant from a good league hence, coming into sight…    

Pete Ray…

4th December 2025…

CHARLECOTE PARK, WARWICKSHIRE, 4TH DECEMBER 2025... (DECORATED FOR CHRISTMAS...)

 

ABOVE & BELOW: REDWINGS...

LAKESHORE IN WINTER... (My new poem inspired by another piece of artwork by Michelle Underwood...)

 Lakeshore In Winter…

(Inspired by Michelle Underwood’s captivating artwork…)

A spindly leafless tree, hapless and undercoated by a thin

Layer of frost, or snow, thrusts wild frustrated limbs at its absence

Of reflection in the grim dullness of a wintering lake. 

Yet an inky lemon hue of foliage, incongruous in the pressing gloom 

And scarred by a toothless cavity, gaping with malevolence and sin,

Is mirrored below the murky surface with its all seeing eye, a presence

Sinister, a grotesque manifestation wallowing in the opaque

Depths, or even a submerged sunflower, hiding from the elements of doom…

Pete Ray…

3rd December 2025…

The horror within the beauty attracted me…

PULLING ME AWAY... (My new poem inspired by a Michelle Underwood painting...)

 Pulling Me Away…

(Inspired by Michelle Underwood’s painting…)

There is something unobtainable there pulling me away

From the stumbling pathway I have followed, directly,

Or indirectly. And it makes me wonder,

And muse, and evaluate, and ponder,

For there is something unapproachable there tugging me awry. 

I linger a distance away, huddled, infatuated, intently

Surveying the scene from behind a stripped silhouetted tree, under 

Which, maybe its last red leaf lies, by winds finally ripped asunder… 

Tracks prod dashed lines across thick snow towards the door

And images of a rare wintering badger, or foraging fox, or inquisitive deer

Flick though my mind’s eye, as closer to the dwelling unwittingly I draw,

Intoxicated, excited and tormented by fear…

Pulling me away from a semblance of comfort and peace,

Enticing me towards a promise, albeit cold and bleak,

I encroach it, unable to resist the temptation, the beauty, the tease,

To find the thrill of redemption, which I have constantly laboured to seek…   

Pete Ray…

2nd December 2025…

The painting had a strange effect upon me…

The dwelling took my focus and I wondered…

It seemed like my nemesis, my fear, my joy, 

my end-place…

   

    

COLLAPSING IN PORTHLEVEN... (My poem about The Flowerpot Men & the boats in Porthleven's harbour, Cornwall...)

 Collapsing In Porthleven…

It was rather like when the gardener returned from lunch

And the wobbling, uncoordinated Bill and Ben,

Not to mention the neurotic Little Weed,

Simply dropped forwards into a state of collapse

Until the gardener went away again

And it became safe, it was assumed,

For the trio to jerk to life once more beneath visible strings,

So that the unintelligible ‘flobadobs’ were resumed,

Translated by a woman who surely made it all up

In her BBC accent, merely an interpreter’s hunch…

And so it happened in Porthleven,

As the harbour’s sea receded with a whimper.

Moored vessels, having bobbed and fidgeted

Upon a late June tide

Simply leaned sideways and eventually slumped,

Awkward, helpless, hapless and quite uneven.

Rope lines and loose fittings clicked their anger

At the ignominy of listing to one side

In glum mud, like hulks abandoned and dumped,

Until, naturally, the turning tide

Would lift the boats once more to a gentle, rippling pride… 

Pete Ray…

I watched the fleet of small launches and vessels drop 

uselessly sideways in the inner harbour, as the tide receded in June 2019 and I was reminded of the BBC children’s TV programme, ‘The Flowerpot Men’.

I should maybe get a life…