TRANQUIL... (My poem about a depiction of St Faith, Overbury Church, Worcestershire...)

 Tranquil…

A crown sits slightly uncomfortably perhaps,

Revealing her lack of maturity.

The youthful hair sweeping long and flaxen,

Like woven twists of golden fabric hangs,

Matching the decorative silks upon her garments

Of deep blue and green for her majesty.

St Faith, martyred, her countenance tranquil…

Long, slender fingers caress her open bible,

Her poise and expression thus becalmed.

A sword tucked against the pulse of her wrist,

Her strength, her faith and her devotion confirms.

She leans upon the torturous grid of torment

Upon which her mortal body was cruelly harmed.

St Faith, martyred, her piety unequivocal…

Pete Ray…

One of the depictions of St Faith at Overbury’s church in Worcestershire, as seen in 2017…

RAVENGLASS... (My poem about a street in West Cumbria, which wasn't overly welcoming...)

 Ravenglass…

(Streetlife in March 2012…)

A restrained barking dog

Swung on its tether,

Like a villain swinging on the gallows

In a gale

And attempted to clamp its jaws 

Onto the rear wheel of a passing car,

Glaring, like its lunatic owner,

A morose, malignant male.

The admonished, yelping hound

Wrapped in its tether,

Like a trussed captive on the decks

Of a slaver,

Warded away trespassers from the street

And the dismal, tidal banks of the Esk,

Staring, like its manic handler,

Teeth bared, like a seated cadaver…

Pete Ray…

Walking along a Ravenglass street, West Cumbria, towards the River Esk’s estuary, a nasty dog and its owner made it clear that visitors weren’t particularly welcome…

MOUSEHOLE WITH ITS COLOURS REMOVED... (MY POEM ABOUT AN OLD IMAGE OF MOUSEHOLE, CORNWALL...)

 Mousehole With Its Colours Removed…

Just a day, one day near the stark wharf,

Its protective stone mosaic robust,

Behind which nets hang on lines to dry,

Repaired and stinking in a coastal gust…

Just a cottage, one cottage on the stark quay,

Its worn exterior greying and dulled,

The chimneys like sauce bottles piercing 

A sky, clouded, grim and mulled…

Just monochrome, one monochrome of a stark harbour

Into a black and white cadaver is rendered.

Gloomy steps up to a wooden balcony trudge,

As Mousehole’s romantic heritage is engendered… 

No visitors, no leisure,

No Christmas lights.

No craft shops, no accommodation,

No magical lit nights…

History drains the harbour

Of colours once fast,

Into black and white fading

To a ghost of the past…

Pete Ray…

This black and white image of Mousehole’s wharf seems like a ghost of how it must have really looked when the picture was taken, in its natural colours… 

GLEN NEVIS FROM GLEN ROY, EARLY MORNING... (Inspired by Peter Brook's painting...)

 Glen Nevis From Glen Roy, Early Morning…

(Inspired by another Peter Brook painting…)

Walking boots pulled on over thick socks, jeans tucked in

And early morning cool kept out by warm clothing, even headwear,

The gods forbid… Wetness, pervading the breathtaking chill

Glistens on footwear, worn joints ease into action and the wonders

Of Lochaber are soon revealed by marred mists, swirling above 

The harsh moor. 

Highland snow, capping the peaks to form a stunning floodlit 

Ridge instil permanence and enormity and such beauty abounds, as the merest hint

Of sunlight merges with the dank sky over the  range, whilst

Dotted livestock enliven a field of green and a lake nestles, a silvery seam to glint 

Upon the moor…   

Pete Ray…

3rd February 2026…

Fort William lies nearby but the streak of silver water, the snow upon the mountains and the sheep dotted on the light green field, all seem to attract the attention… 

19 IMAGES OF BIRDS IN MY SOLIHULL GARDEN, 1ST-3RD FEBRUARY 2026...

 

CHINA CLAY TIPS... (My new poem inspired by Peter Brook's painting...)

 China Clay Tips…

(Inspired by Peter Brook’s painting of Cornwall…)

Dominating the landscape like the ancient pyramids of Egypt, 

The Cornish tips are memorials, not to Pharaohs but to the China Clay industry

And its miners. Like spilt paint, white spoil streaks the dark piles

Towering and glowering above a dwelling and constructed from dross…

Captivating the beholder like mountains, snow-tipped,

The mounds survive as Wheal Martyn’s historical legacy.

And travellers observe them, intrigued, even from miles

Distant, testament to the mineworkers’ endeavour and loss…   

Pete Ray…

2nd February 2026…

The mounds pictured below formed the backdrop to a soccer match I covered at St Dennis, Cornwall in 2016…

It was like watching a game in the shadow of fine weather pyramids, or mountain slopes, snow covered for skiing…

Weird…