"Poetry by JED"

NIGHT FISHING

We entered that landscape of a different weight beyond the Manor gates.
It was the anticipated fishing season of warm twilight June, rods fixed, canvas boxes carried on shoulders strong.
Across moist main field, torches shining our determined path - perch or lily? The latter always favourite (except the time alone, with only forever wandering Dave my witness, there was that magnificent Tench!).
With backs bent, stealthily approaching soft hearing flop, flop, flop of Crucian carp jumping, relatively small they fought and swelled the nets.
We cast with nervousness bordering on silent love, our expectant hands gently caressed cork awaiting tumultuous successful first strike.
You had to be careful, swiftly they ran to the tangling shallows, straining, breaking that four-pound line in their refuge of illuminated lilies.
With a squeeze, four filled that coveted swim where at times we swore at cross lines, as rats appeared and the midges bite.
The awaking dawn silences us as the pipistrelles that were company throughout the chill Hunters Moon night vanish, presumably deep within the towering hollow Elm.
Brown and red Moorhens cautiously weave a course amongst the yellow flowered heads.
Faraway in Firwood, the Tawny owl mournfully hooting, much closer Little owls we revered, sharply cried in our awe!
Fleeting in movement and moment Kingfisher heralds the flaming solstice-red horizon, while gathering thin bird song gradually increases to crescendo.
Above the rising mist, sunbeams catch Dragonfly wings of spinning electric rainbow hues.
Eyes tired and sore from replenished wood smoke, sedated we wander unwashed home.
This was how we were, true children of the Green Belt and as I pass through these fragmented days of fear and doubt I wish once more to be on that bank.
21 June 2002
JED

SEED OF FATE

I hear a language, which has become uncomfortably familiar. In young and old the cries of despair are universal.
Time does not heal them, the sun does not warm them, kind words and gentle touch, and even love will not redeem the despair that grows and spreads from their birth until the untimely premature lovely release of their death.
3 October 2002
JED

The Cave

Overhead the peregrines soar, masters of the ancient gorge, while far below in the depths of orange hue caves, water percolates for thousands of years producing stalagmites and stalactites.
The long journeys over we stand for photographs.
A flash of light a millionth of a second lights the backdrop of mans eternal wall.
We marvel, laugh and joke it all off, bringing in all our vicissitudes the fragility of equal life.
No one apart, no one below, no one above.
Strangers past us by as if they are ghosts from a past life.
Chilled we come forth from the dark our individual deep thoughts dispelled in the bright warmth of the sun and the company we keep.
Cheddar Gorge Trip
22 July 2002
Jed