Parenthood Hasn't Changed Me 1

This collection of poems is about childhood. Having a child creates new memories but is also a trigger to remember episodes from your own childhood. This collection is about how parenthood hasn’t changed me, just reacquainted me with my younger self.

When I was growing up, my brothers and I would go down to the local woods. We play, make bows and arrows, do many things but one that I remember clearly is catching small fish, called Bullheads, from the stream, collecting them in a bucket.

Bluebells

Minutes rippled by

as our hands swept

the still crystal waters.

Cold to the touch

and chilling over time

a single swig of the water

was satisfyingly sweet.

But our minds

rarely strayed to refreshment.

Our eyes were honed

to the next rock

or shadow cast crevice.

Were set on lifting the covering stone

waiting for the river-bed to settle

and gaze greedily

on our frozen prey.

For there he would wait

imperceptibly flicking a fin

motionless and camouflaged

to the unfocused eye.

But we were trained.

Our hands sliced stealthily

upon our target

cut slowly to

his side and

snapped him from his home.

Placed him with his peers

in our bucket of trophies.

And all the while

the bluebells hung their heads,

bent their stems in the breeze

of our innocent shame.

Pennington Flash is a large body of water near where I live. I had been quite often before my son was born but it soon became the go to place to walk, go on the swings and feed the ducks. Going more regularly revealed new wonders, such as the young frogs leaving the Flash. Once a year, all of the new frogs, who have just developed from tadpoles, leave the Flash all at once. The exodus becomes a moving carpet of young frogs for as far as the eye can see.

Morning

Watch the sunlight shimmer and

on warming waters play

watch vapours gently rising as

life buds with each new ray.

Hear ducks hoarsely calling and

stout swans hissing hard for a fight

hear leaves awaken with the sun

tan their faces in the light.

Smell the honey scent of hawthorn and

the grass so soon to be shorn,

take in the scene as nature breaks

her fast in the glutinous morn’.

Bask in the rays of morning and

hold forever in your mind

the essence of this moment which

will soon into history glide.

Very often the sea, when I get to it, looks stormy. Calm, sunny days by the sea are few and far between. I was always playing with toy soldiers as a child and I considered the waves as an army of water attacking the shore.

The Sea

The vile wind urges with gentle hand

ekes out each virgin soldier blue

marching them over the ocean deep

swelling the ranks of the weary few.

On the horizon they nobly gather

charging their steeds in a watery wake

bravely into the fortified coastline

with the vigour of youth, the shore they break.

They crash upon rocks which slice like knives

snarling with white foam and maddening eyes

bloodied they retreat, reinforcements arrive

with brandished sabre the mighty Sea cries;

“Onward dear brothers, charge down their lines

see them succumb as we valiant ride

strong brother Wind will gain victory sweet

from our pounding guns no Beach can retreat!”

Refreshed and ready, flushing ocean blue

a legion of souls spring innocent and true

pummelling grey rocks who with fortitude bar

the thundering hooves who in deaths shallows charge.

On obstinate granite the fool waves crashed

their thin line fragmented, their vain glory dashed

then back to the ocean they are drawn once more

becoming tired old water by the cold sea floor.

Winter used to mean snow. It didn’t snow all the time but most years it snowed, though only occasionally heavily. We would make a snowman, if enough snow then an igloo (I was inside when our gigantic igloo collapsed) but always I failed to do what I wanted to do: catch a snowflake and keep it.

Catching a Star

For a second I was happy.

For a second I looked up

into the frost laden air.

Watched the flakes magically appear

from out the sky.

Raised my shaking hand

to catch him

cushion his perilous decent.

And there he died.

My irresponsible nature

melted his fragile frame.

Reduced him

to a cold pool

of his former self.

And I once more

sheathed my hand.

Turned away from the point

of his execution,

vowing never to interfere again

in nature’s course.

That is the end of part one of Parenthood Hasn’t Changed Me.

I will try to post the second part soon. Thank you for reading.