LOW FLYING... (My poem about Eyebrook Reservoir, Rutland...)

 Low Flying… 

(Eyebrook Reservoir, Rutland, 2013…)

Placid, silent,

The expanse of reservoir

Eked a channel

Towards insipid mists

And pastel trees,

Disturbed only by unhurried divers,

Querulous, flapping gulls

And fussing wagtails,

As a pale March sky watched its myriad reflections

Flatter, deceive, disturb, yet ultimately please…

I saw a swan then,

Flying low in a determined approach,

Heavy, foreboding and insidious.

I imagined a Lancaster then,

Flying low in a predetermined approach,

Heavy, brooding and invidious…

Pete Ray

Ate a meagre lunch alongside Eyebrook Reservoir, Rutland, where Lancaster bombers practised low flying for the ‘Dambusters’ raid of WW2…

And then a swan did just that, flying low along the length of the reservoir…  

ST MARGARET'S CHURCH, WARD END... (My poem about a church in Birmingham, UK...)

 St Margaret’s Church, Ward End…

(Birmingham, UK…)

Functional, no battlements here,

No gargoyles, no historic stone.

Merely plain, dull and austere,

Its outer skin weathered and prone

To mould and algae. An unkempt shell,

Ageing, unrestored and stark.

Yet a place to go to stave off hell

And hear a churchman’s bite and bark…

Inside though, despite its plaster peeling,

Stained glass glowed with light and life.

Its memorials enticed me down and kneeling

To honour Great War sacrifice and strife…

I thought then of my parents, married there

And of my own Christening in this damp old place.

I stood contrite and saddened at its unbridled wear,

Wondering at its once all empowering grace…

Pete Ray

MY PARENTS' WEDDING, 1943...

...& 50TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY IN 1993...

I visited St Margaret’s in 2011 before its makeover and took a few images of the place.

A sad day for me, although I was kind of proud too…

WAKE-UP CALL... (My poem about a rude awakening at Lulworth Cove in Dorset...)

 Wake-up Call…

(Lulworth Cove, Dorset, 2004…)

As I lay drowsy, with a cool breeze upon my face

And finding it tough to relax in an unfamiliar place,

I was suddenly aware (it was certainly no dream)

Of an unenviable, throaty and piercing scream.

It came from beyond the hotel’s garden wall

From the neck of a cockerel, a shrill morning call.

Red-headed, white-bodied, with a high-feathered black tail,

For the next four hours, the bugger's intermittent wail

Forced my eyebrows to twitch and my teeth to grind,

And my love of nature was forced to the back of my mind…

It may have impressed its accompanying hen

But I vowed to kill it, if it woke me again…

Pete Ray

12th August 2004...

The grotesque creature made one night quite 

horrendous at Lulworth Cove. 

Gossip suggested that a local guy rose at around 4am each morning mainly to set the cock off and disturb holidaymakers…

RETURNING TO ROCK, NORTH CORNWALL... (My poem about returning to Rock in 2008, a boyhood destination, Cornwall...)

 Returning To Rock, North Cornwall…

It was the silence,

Like I had returned 

From death

To retrace my boyhood steps, 

On soft sand and pale dunes

And the undulating bed

Of the River Camel’s estuary

Disguised the channel’s depths.

It was the essence,

Like I had grasped 

From memory

To recover my childhood joy,

On drifting sand and marram grass

And the menacing current

Of the eerie shifting waters

Disguised a clever ploy.

It was the absence,

Like I had desired 

From truth

To retrieve my boyhood innocence

On yielding sand and shallow tide

And the unrelenting ebbing

Of the waterway’s languid shuttles

Disguised my mind’s ambivalence…

Pete Ray…

(2008 visit…)

Visiting Rock, I simply had to leap from the dunes, as I had done when I was a kid…

It never really felt like the seaside there though, due to the estuary and I really didn’t enjoy playing in the water at Rock. 

Mum and Auntie Ivy were restless to get across the River Camel to the shops in Padstow, albeit this was around 1960 but sure enough, Uncle Jack and my father would relent and we would spend a frustrating time plodding around the harbour and shops… 

Yet those Atlantic waves awaited nearby at Newquay, Polzeath, or Treyarnon Bay, our other regular haunts…