Honeymoon

I thought I'd lost you yesterday,
2006 and smiling face,
overseas and newly wed and newly off the plane.

Scratched disk -
past would not reveal itself,
pictures lost and careless me and playful careless kids.

I'll never be that young when caught in photographs again.

I thought you'd slipped -
yesteryear and lost from grip,
all I have to keep in sight and pull together bits.

Of youth -
2 days married, honeymoon,
clearest ocean miles from home and turquoise deep sea view.

And tiny birds,
terrace bar and and view beyond,
perch and flutter in our midst and lightest, sweetest song.

As free as us.

As free as blood to duly rush,
brow and sweat and how on earth has such a thing been done,
lose the image lose the means to easily recall.

Freckle face and slim and tall,
not yet stretched of children borne,
husband dark when silver grey was still for years beyond.

Young and loved and only us and wandered far abroad.

And though I say,
I am not so different from the girl that I was then,
certain angle, certain light and only certain change...

Not today -
found you there on apple mac and hardly knew your face,
honeymoon and honey skin and honey lightened hair.

Age is cruel in morning light to catch you unaware.

So keep you safe,
double, triple, back-up made,
what's been lost in looking glass at least on disc remains.

30 years and bright of eye,
gaze ahead at sunny sky,
if I could I'd let you know that things will work out fine...

Girl you'll be a mother soon - in only 12 months time.

6 Foot Tall

Young man,



world at your feet - time on your hands,

all that you have yet to know and all that's yet to span...



Your path -
choice and chance and here at last,
walk the walk and talk the talk and never, don't look back.



A family man,
swing and shoulders, infant hand,
grown now and grown up and all that's come to pass.

Man and boy and heart and joy and may it ever last.

And not all went to plan?
Well rest assured it never did for any living man,
dreams and hopes and will and work and do the best you can.

For years and years -
change and place and who could ever know where life would lead,
ups and downs and roundabouts and laughter, love and tears.

One way or another - you're all here in one piece.

And of today?
Of tomorrow come what may?
Who would ever waste their time to try and guess at fate?

But this space - this voice and this face,
full of promise, open doors and brightest early days,
each of you in your own way and each of you can say...

My boy -
my heart - my joy -
may you have the best of all and may you find your way.

Thank you - you've been wonderful - and Happy Fathers Day... x

Ripples

Yesterday we walked -
castle view and cliff side top,
bluest, greenest ocean wave and sky and sheerest drop.

Gulls to cry and gulls to dive and swoop and soar aloft.

And your bare arms,
sandals, legs and summer tan,
toddle, clamber, race and fall and catch me if you can.

Sweet are early summer days without a baby pram.

Without a care -
cotton hat and golden hair,
taller, stronger, longer limbs than you knew yesterday.

Sun becomes a sunny girl and sunny is your way.

And do you know these days?
The sort for almost tempting fate?
You are happy now, not later caught in retrospect.

Clear blue sky and still warm air,
shield your eyes from yellow glare,
sea and stone and hazy island just across the bay.

All that you should dare to be,
place and time you wish to see,
days like this when skies above seem almost within reach.

Firm on feet on pebble beach,
not a ripple mill pond sea,
cast a stone and make a wish and set a change of scene.

Night Swimming

Sunburn stung,
coarse sand met with tender skin and always made it worse,
rub on arm and busy palm the length and back across.

It wouldn't do - the aloe vera lotion she had bought. 

Would interfere when time to swim,
chemicals and human skin,
salt from sand once underwater helped with blending in.

And it was better underneath -
cool and clear and dark and deep,
night-time swimming far from shore and shingle laden beach.

And how she loved to dip -
push and dive and slowly sink,
colours of the ocean green and grey and salmon pink.

Rock and bed and wreck and weed,
crab and shoal and giant eel,
easy then in her command, once wet and cold and deep.

But not from here - high on beach,
hot and dry and hair tied neat,
nothing wet and nothing wild and ponytail to keep.

Slip from bed once late at night and walk the path unseen.

For secrets (often prone to leak) are easy hidden here,
furthest, farthest, far-flung point where gulls cry on the breeze,
out of season few at all leave home and hearth and tea.

Few outdoors and few to see...

A mermaid of the deep,
tossed and washed to land asleep,
woke with feet and legs and longing to be back at sea.

Night-time swimming off the shore,
man and babe but neither know,
arms and tail and silver scales and fin to flex once more.

Call For Poetry Voices!

According to traditional maritime culture

champagne may be disposed of in the following fashion...

I've decided just to drink mine!

To toast the launch of a brand new BritMums monthly Poetry & Prose Round-up

which will be co-edited by myself and the lovely Victoria Welton.

This is a wonderful chance for us to showcase the best poetry
 and prose voices in blogging and to discover fresh new talent. 

If you blog, write or scribble poetry then I want to hear about it, 

if you know of talented writers of prose then point them in my direction, 

if you are inspired to have an initial go for yourself then now is the hour!

Poetry and prose are growing in popularity within a modern audience
and our new monthly round-up will be a wonderful way to showcase
the best of both established and emerging talent. 

There are no rules.

We are a new generation of writers and readers and we are keen to hear your voice.

Get in touch by email to all-at-sea@hotmail.com or tweet me your links to @EllieAllAtSea

Image source: http://www.ussbegor.org/

Goodbye Bluebell Wood

Spring came late,
hail and snow and rain to pour and really made us wait,
north wind blows and heaven knows when we'll see sun again.

To cast a clout,
never safe till May is out,
June near come and tepid sun but still its freezing out.

Glad are we - it's warmer now.



In heady breeze,
sweetest perfume, bowing trees,
bluebell carpet, trodden route and lilac, blue and green.

Moments stop and close your eyes and take the time to breathe.

And all where that takes me -
another year, another wood and path led to the sea,
sandals, scuffs and picnic lunch and blanket, flask and tea.

Scent of bluebells, sand and salt and caught by memory.

But here in wood, deep and green and lush and good,
fairy glen and hidden door and magic if you look,
overgrown day by day and gaining underfoot.

And nettles creep -
grow and stretch and soon knee deep,
summer garden over-run and never ours to keep.

Wild now till trodden down and lost in winter freeze.

So wave goodbye,
say come back another time,
older, taller, stronger, somewhat wiser, wider eyes.

Don't forget and don't lose step and bid bluebells goodbye.

Love

Love,

that potent stuff -

does not remain the heady rush that first, that once, it was.

It brings change -

arms and legs and baby face,

sleepless nights and we will never be the same again.

A family then,

fill your heart and fill your days,

wonder what on earth you did before you found this place.

And later you,

sunny you,

sometime I did something right to end up here with you.

All of you.

My three -

without whom I would not be me,

lucky, lucky, lucky me... x

Closing Time

11 years.
And in the end it's you who left - it's you who's leaving me.

For pastures new -
place to go and work to do,
new beginning, open door and latest, newest broom.

Good for you.

And we sat side by side,
leaving night and busy crowd and vodka, beer and wine,
pizza Friday after work and stay till closing time.

And you said chance,
you said what if circumstance,
pick you up and put you down and fail to turn out right?

Take your chances, road less travelled, I say you'll be fine.

So keep in touch - here's to all things working out,
may the next 11 years bring what the past has not,
let me know what comes your way - and Iain?

Best of luck x

My workmate Iain

Hang On High

Bats in the roof -

the space above our room,

3am and wide awake and month of May and June.

Zig and zag and zoom,
wooden eaves and top of trees and over wild woods,
sky and field and speed of sound and heady birds eye view.

And smaller - than you knew.

And you can watch,
9pm and open door and turn the TV off,
pebble garden, rugged stone and fly from way on top.

To soar and swarm and drop.

And I first heard,
softly thud and thud again
late at night and late to bed and listen what on earth?

Gone at dusk and home at dawn and sleep then overhead.

In our house -
bat and bee and bird and mouse,
in and out and up and down and through and round about.

Foot of field and ever-green and empty miles around.

Their house,
here before and here beyond and who could stop them now?
Open sky and hang on high and darkest, deadest night.

A Post For Emma

This post links to #S2S2D and is written for Emma Day, undergoing radiotherapy treatment for Thyroid Cancer, which sees her in isolation in hospital for 3 days, then unable to cuddle her young family for a further 3 weeks...

When I was 7 and my Dad was in his early 30's he was diagnosed with Neuroblastoma Cancer and embarked on a serious of operations, chemotherapy and radiotherapy that would last into my teens. He, like Emma, spent periods of time in isolation. I have vague memories of visiting the hospital in Glasgow with my brother, waving at Dad through the glass, and then playing in the hospital corridors whilst my Mum sat on a chair by Dads door.

In the 1980's the radiotherapy treatment which Dad was given was very much in the experimental stage - he had huge doses, in retrospect probably far larger than were required. However where chemotherapy had failed to make a difference, the radiotherapy worked - it shrunk the tumours time and again, until his treatment was able to stop and he was not required to be separated from us again.

Recently, whilst clearing out a cupboard, I came across a handwritten poem - which I composed for Dad on his 40th birthday. I was 16 at the time and 40 years old really did seem ancient. Here's a very flattering picture that I drew of Dad at the foot of the page...

I'll spare you the entire poem but the complimentary tone in which it was delivered can be gleamed from the following snippet...

And now that he is 40 years

and sprouting silver hairs,

he'll talk about getting a walking stick

and sit in comfy chairs,

but bordem sure won't bother him

nor being over the hill,

he's got his wife for company

and she is older still!

My own husband turned 40 earlier this year, and I'm 37 - the idea that my son may be thinking similar of us is very unappealing!!

But my message for you Emma, is that although Dad was seriously ill during my childhood, with frequent spells in hospital - sometimes in isolation - these days are not at the forefront of my memory at all. I was young and I was resilient - and your children I hope will be the same. I have no doubt that the separation was actually much harder for my Dad than it was for my brother and I. We got to visit, we got to wave - and ultimately - we believed that he was going to be OK.

Which he was!

On his 40th...

  

On his 50th...

And in the summer of last year - his 60th!

Best of luck to you Emma. 

Your girls love you very much - 

this time will pass and you will have them back in your arms very, very soon xxx

Archie

11pm.
Stood up, yawned and climbed the stairs to check on you in bed.

5.5,
there you lay,
tall and slim and clever thing and stretching day by day.

And we had walked,
took your sister to the sea and ran and played and talked,
argued somewhat when it came to food that I had brought.

My boy,
changing every day and ever growing up and on,
fast and thin and curve of shin and ragged hair left long.

I love you son.

And you had changed your clothes,
went to bed in cotton stripes but I found Mr Fox,
fast asleep and under eaves by fancy dress-up box.

I cannot say the reason why but my heart simply stopped.

Growth is fast and days don't last whilst I forget to watch,
Length of limb and boyish things where once there was a cot... x

I Found You

(Make sure to click on all the links!)

I found you in words - screens and keys and who would know a whole another world.

And you have such great wit,
you have been a cornerstone when luck and life jumped ship.

You write very well,
you can embrace beauty in the stories that you tell,
sense and such and love in words and all said very well.

You weave clever tales,
voice and music lift you up and fill your very sails.

Angels walk with you,
you have learnt of monster love in all that you've been through,
faith and joy and gorgeous words are what I glimpse in you.

You know stars - you I know can understand,
life and love and losing stuff and all that comes around...

And you?
Brought to me through hellish news? Not from happy easy talk and hi there how are you?

But your words - your strength and your love,
you are making friends in ways which never were your choice.

May we help you light your days for you inspire us.

Thank you, thank you, thank you too for all that you have brought...

Lucky me I found your voice - each and every one... x

Night Pirates

7pm.
Top of the house and wooden boards and weary nodding head,
cotton pjs, frozen toes and climb the stairs to bed.

Water, book and ted,
yellow lamp and baby gate they haven't taken yet,
nearly 6 and far too big to sleep before it's late.

With pirates in your head -
scale a wall and creep a floor and seize an end of bed,
nudge and feel and steal from dreams and claim you for themselves.

Their wooden ship,
steering wheel and windswept deck,
rope and rigging you can climb to clouds and back again.

Fishing nets of shark and fin,
killer whale and giant squid,
wicker creel, electric eel and poison jelly fish.

No boy need have any fear when he has pirate friends.

Of freckled cheek,
ragged hair and dirty feet,
threadbare shorts and torn shirt and neck-scarf underneath.

Worn steps to lower deck,
midnight feast to catch your breath,
breaded fish and salted chips and every man himself.

(You can eat your very fill then do it all again).

And treasure chest?
Keep it safe and under bed,
never told to not a soul and keep it to yourself.

Wooden bed by wooden eaves,
stone built house by pebble beach,
nearly 6 and pirate tricks and brightest, bravest dreams... x

One Year Ago

A year ago today I lost my lovely Gran at the age of 90. She lived a long and happy life and kept well all her days - until shortly before she died. The poem below was written whilst she was very ill in hospital, and it was clear to everyone who loved her that she would not be able to come home. I read it a short time later at her funeral.

12 months of writing later I don't think this is my best poem, however it will always remain close to my heart, and it rekindled a passion for poetry which has lead to creating my blog - of which I am very proud.

So here we are, for you...

Gran

When my little boy was 2 years old
I took him to the cottage at Chippermore,
on new boy legs and running fast
he raced ahead into my past.

Played on rocks, threw stones to the sea
climbed the hill and skint a knee,
I did the same on holiday
another year, another day.

I wanted to take my man and boy
to glimpse a time that I enjoyed,
you've left me such a treasure chest
of happy days that I know best.

Walks to see the daffodils
Happy Birthday and Easter things,
otter on the rock at Monreith Bay
paper hats on Christmas Day.

A G&T, a glass of wine
lentil soup at dinner time,
Care Bears, Caledonia Road
hat and gloves when it has snowed.

A rolled newspaper beats a paper fish
a chicken bone can make a wish,
tennis on TV all of June
cake mix and a wooden spoon.

My brother, my cousins, my Mum and Dad
know why these things make me sad,
but just for today, a little while
and then again they'll make me smile.

And Gran I wanted you to know
that these are places I'll still go,
so that in years and days to be
my children know Great Gran through me.

The Fallow

From the nook of the tree at the top of the field,
the writer spoke to the view of the sea,
"How may I be all the mother they need,
when words have taken hold of me?"

The sea answered not but the fallow said -
A mother first, so words must wait.

She frowned at this, it pleased her not,
she asked the gate by the sunny spot -
"To wait to write while children grow?
I'll lose the words, forget them all."

The gate answered not but the fallow said -
How can you lose what's in your head?

So she replied -

"This work, this life, these chores abound,
take of the time and the voice I have found,
push me and pull me and tire me out,
drag it from mind and then water it down."

The fallow said -
Stop - ask yourself what you're writing about.

No fertile mind can continually sow, 
absent of rest and un-wearied by woe,
artists and makers and writers of words, 
cannot glimpse beauty or pain in the world,
without being daughters or mothers or sons, 
lovers or fighters or babes in the womb,
husbands or wives or the friend on the phone,
nurse at the bedside or chaperone home,
giddy with laughter and rested from work, 
bright in the morning and warm in the sun.

To recognise beauty you have to live first.

So put down your paper, take leave of your pen, 
look to your child, remember her name, 
speak to your loved one, return to your way, 
empty your mind and make best of your day.

You shall grow rich in all you have to say.

And she did -
walked through the wood and remembered to live.

Then later?

Found the fallow sown,
vibrant, healthy life to show,
active, working, busy growth,
sprouting, shooting, row on row on row.

Idle, rested, fertile earth once more sprung green and gold... x

Wash Day

The washing hung outside most days,

sun and cloud and sometimes rain,
wind which blew it inside out and near and far away.

Like sheets from 29,
found their way from off the line,
fishing boat and tangled up and rigging wrap-around.

"Quite the fright for Jimmy Guthrie walking home from town."

And Eilidh's jeans,
fray and dye and rip the seams,
told her mother seagulls pecked and tore right through the knees.

"Eilidh darling what a sight you're never wearing these."

Then Andy Green - office worker, No 3.
grey and blue and white and check and long and short in sleeve,
20 shirts and 7 ties and 5 day working week.

"Andy only does a washing 12 times every year."

And Shona Wright - baby twins at No. 9,
cotton cloth and nappy pin and always turned out fine,
whitest linen in the row but never any time.

"When it rains there's terry towelling hanging up inside."

And you can walk,
cobbled pavement, harbour wall,
iron poles and coloured stone and painted wooden doors.

Length of line on eastern coast,
duck and weave and step through clothes,
hung to dry with passers-by and northern wind to blow... x

I was entertained on a recent visit to Cellardyke on the East Neuk of Fife,
by the communal washing line on the harbour walk. It is just as pictured below.

Harbour Washing Lines, Cellardyke, East Neuk
Artwork by Justine Marjoribanks

Space

If you were here I'd hand you anger on a plate,

shield my eyes and step away,

tell you 'smash the lot the floor is slate'.

And that would be OK.

And we could walk - through the wood towards the slope,

only air and land would hear you call -

cry and shout and swear and break and fall.

And it's OK to fall, it's OK to hit the floor,

tear the earth and open every door - 

rage and hate and all you've come to know.

And you could curse the sky,

life and moments ticking by,

every single living thing that passes near your eye.

Why me? Why oh why oh why oh why?

My girl, my heart, my soul, my all,

why were you the one to die?

And you could stay all day, every tear you have to shed,

well and fall and drip and run away - 

grass and soil, slope and wind and rain.

And one day to the sea,

wave and water, salt and breeze,

wild ocean full of life and full of mother's grief.

And heaven and earth?

What of those who're stuck in hell?

Need today for answers, rage and space?

If you were here I'd hold your hand then turn and walk away... x

Image by Three Zero Photography

I am linking this post to Prose For Thought

Son Of The Sea

It started months ago,

seasick feeling right about the time she missed a course,

tossed and turned and worn out and thrown overboard.

And shiny, straight hair gone,

damp and ragged wild curls,

fitting - he said - of a shipwrecked girl lost in a storm.

Washed from bath taps gold,

heavy, solid, huge and old,

tub with feet and brimming over salted water flow.

And she a fan of fish,

silver scales and tail to twitch,

these days from the outhouse freezer they ate little else.

In a garden overgrown,

pebbles, driftwood, paving stones,

foam and seaweed glimpsed through cracks where only grass should grow.

And sand blew under door,

narrow hall and tiny porch,

battered, dusty, leaded windows looking to the shore.

Their home,

dark at night and built of stone,

edge of land and edge of life and edge of all she'd known.

Love or lights or who could say but something brought her north.

But she feared that to come,

9 months gone and kicking limbs,

hope and pain and mother love and all unknown things.

And a gush - like waves,

throw you up and toss you down and lift you once again,

home and warm and safe and dry seem very far away.

Violent - bloody - pain.

If you live you never wish to know its like again,

flounder then and cry out loud and push and grasp your way.

To newborn wails,

fists and feet and angry face,

flesh and bone and life and love and sea and stars and grace.

Sailors son born safe to shore in howling wind and gale... x

N.B. My 'Stories Of The Sea' posts are entirely fictitious and are my current, early attempts at story telling. My own son was born in a warm, safe and brightly lit hospital theatre.

Thanks to my talented workmate Colin Millar for the use of his beautiful photography. You can find Colin at Three Zero Photography or view more of his work on flickr.

The Number 9

Black cat 9 lives,

Goal! Striker number 9.

9 planets solar system,

9 US baseball innings.

Cloud 9, can't get higher,

9 Christian angel choirs.

Dressed up to the nines,

Party like it's '99.

Scrum half rugby pitch,

Upside down number 6.

9 months mothers womb,

99 red balloons.

9 months bright life,

Off to bed sleep tight.

999

The call no mother should have to make on a Saturday Night.

9 days of an auction for Matilda Mae,

Please help make a difference today.

Life After Death

Written as a Britmums Guest Post

You were a writer I believe,

books and letters kept for years,

birthday cards and diaries and date and time and year.

And inside paper sleeves,
"To Miss Ellie, Happy Birthday 1983",

people tell me there is much of you they see in me.

And how I wish that you were here,

fit and well with time to read,

words and thoughts and verse and stories pouring out of me.

And from where on earth?

It seems to me I found my voice the very day you left,

woke up, stood up, straightened up and looked for something else.

Life after death.

And how can I say loss?

When you have left me something I had very near forgot,

lost and drowned and watered down and lately all but gone.

My voice.

My hopes, my thoughts,

minds-eye, daydream, storybook and song.

A place to go,

space and page where words belong,

friends whom I could never have begun to think I'd know.

And I've learnt more of love,

in this last year since you have left than all the years before,

life and death and what is never really ours to hold.

We rent in life - we do not own.

So 90 years old,

days lived well and journeys told,

when you left me here I wonder did you always know?

You closed your eyes and fell sleep and that's the day I woke... x

For my Gran. 
30th June 1921 - 21st May 2012. 
The memory of whom, in large part, inspires every word I write.