The blackbird’s on the roof again
Singing out his truth again
Offering a proof against
The darkness of the world
Crying out with all his might
Believing that his song just might
Hold on to the summer light
And keep the year unfurled

Because the days are getting longer
And as he sings his song a miracle occurs
The sun is lifted higher
And all across the sky the feathered edges blur
The blackbird’s on the roof
And he sings his song

The crows are on the move again
They’ve got something to prove again
They know that something new’s begun
Upheaval all around
Circling in bitter flight
Shouting at each bit of light
Blackened wings and clouds unite
To keep the trouble bound

Because the days are getting longer
And the heat is growing stronger, and it’s only getting worse
The sun is getting higher
And all across the sky the feathered edges blur
The blackbird’s on the roof
And he sings his song

There’s a Greenfinch in the hedge
He watches all these changes with a spark in his eyes
He flickers on the edge
Of reality and strangeness, then he looks to the skies
And in an instant he disappears
And the sky clears

The nights are drawing in again
The summer starts to dim again
And for the robin and the wren
Order is restored
The blackbird’s found another perch
High up in the silver birch
The crows are huddled round the church
Their offerings outpoured

Because the days are getting shorter
And the Greenfinch has bought us all some time to prevail
The sun is getting lower
We must listen to the crows before their feathered edges fail
The blackbird sings the truth
Do you hear his song?

(c) Rich Clarkson 2022

Photo by Rubén Bagüés on Unsplash

If stones could sing what would they say
Of all the things they’ve seen along the way
The stories they could tell,
A hundred million years from shell to shelter

If rocks could write what would they record?
Seeing mountains rise and valleys scored
The stories they could tell,
Two hundred million years from shell to shelter

From deep below the seas
To high up on the hills
The stories of the world are held
Within the path they trace from shell to shelter

If cliffs could cry why would they weep?
Watching oceans dry and deserts creep
The stories they could tell
Three hundred million years from shell to shelter

If hills could hear what would they know
Of changing atmospheres, and glacial flow?
The stories they could tell
Four hundred million years from shell to shelter

From deep below the seas
To high up on the hills
The stories of the world are held
Within the path they trace from shell to shelter

If stones could sing what would they say?
And would we listen anyway
To the stories that they tell
Of all they’ve seen in half a billion years of change
from shell to shelter

(c) Rich Clarkson 2022

A song about several generations of women as told by the Ash tree that accompanied their lives

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Anna sits beside me, watering the ground
A new tree for a new start in the garden that she’s found
And she sings a song
A song she’s always known
Her mother used to sing it
Now it’s deep within her bones
And she sings it to me
It’s the song of her family tree
And the years go by

Anna sits beneath me, resting in my shade
She’s working in the garden that her mother once laid
And she sings a song
A song she’s always known
Her grandmother would sing it
Now it’s deep within her bones
And she sings it to me
It’s the song of her family tree
And the years go by

Anna sits within me, high up in the air
Studying my dying leaves with tenderness and care
And she sings a song
A song she’s always known
Her great grandmother sang it
Now it’s deep within her bones
And she sings it to me
It’s the song of her family tree
And the years go by
And the seasons change
And the swallows fly
But the trees remain

Anna sits upon me, rocking to and fro
In the old ash rocking chair her mother made so long ago
And she sings a song
A song she’s always known
She sings it to her daughter
as it seeps into her bones
And she sings it with me
It’s the song of her family tree
And the years go by
And the seasons change
And the swallows fly
But the trees remain

(c) Rich Clarkson 2021

It was only ever meant to be a temporary tomb
A place to lay his body ’til the Passover was through
It belonged to their friend Joseph and it hadn’t long been hewn
It was empty, it was close, it was a temporary tomb.

They left their saviour’s body safe inside that temporary tomb
and went away to spend the next day mixing spices and perfume
Getting ready to return to Jesus’ body and resume
The preparations for his proper burial in a proper tomb

Very early in the morning, through the darkness and the gloom,
As the rising sun filled the horizon with a thousand hues
Of red and yellow, gold and orange, amber, crimson, bronze and blue
They made their way back through the garden to the temporary tomb.

They were surprised when they approached the stone and saw it had been moved
And squeezing in they were amazed to see an angel in the room
who said “he is not here, he’s risen, go tell everyone the news,
that this was only ever meant to be a temporary tomb!”

Now every day since then the sun has filled the sky anew
And every month since then the night is brightened by the moon
And every Spring the blossom grows and flowers in their beauty bloom
And since then every single tomb has been a temporary tomb.

Because the Easter hope is this, and we believe that it is true,
That God raised Jesus from the dead, and with him raised us too
so all the darkness, death, despair with which our fragile world is strewn
will be no more because of Jesus, and that temporary tomb.

(c) Rich Clarkson, Easter 2022

I know a place where the mountains sing
And the trees rejoice in the wind
I know a place where the birds fly free
And the light of the sun shines on every living thing
And I know a place where all things are new
And I know a place for you

I know a place where grief is gone
And tears no longer fall like a winter storm
I know a place where what was lost is found
And what was broken is made whole once more
And I know a place where all things are new
And I know a place for you

I know a place, not so far away
Where hope shines bright like a summer’s day
And I know the one who can lead us there
Who has been there before, who knows the way
And I know a place where all things are new
And I know a place where all things are true
And I know a place for me and you

(c) Rich Clarkson 2022

I started writing this in the summer when I had covid. After a few days barely able to even stand up I managed to drag myself outside and I sat under the Apple tree for a while until it started raining. I wrote some semi-incoherent fragments of poetry that day which I’ve worked into this sonnet. The fragility of the rhyming reflects those origins.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I have, it seems, my own therapy tree –
an apple tree to be precise – beneath
whose tangled, lichened, arms I gently draw
infected breaths. I watch as her curled leaves
jostle for position (like the crowds
I used to hate and miss with all my heart),
attentive to her wild community
of which, for now, I’m glad to be a part.
The rain starts falling like it only can
in August, somehow summoned as a blessing.
Part of me wants to stay and soak it in
but, feeling blessed enough, I end the session.
Her branches bear the weight of all my grief
and I, a little lighter, take my leave.

Rich Clarkson, August 2021

I sit beneath her, with my back pressed firm
against her corrugated bark. I close
my eyes. Breathe deeply. Let her calm determined
presence hold me still. A light gust blows
across her boughs, releasing green-gold leaves
to seek their freedom in the fickle zephyr
and as they fall I wonder if she grieves,
knowing she could not hold them forever?
Her life, so deeply rooted in this place,
Whispers of worlds I cannot comprehend
and, as I step away from her embrace,
I bid farewell to Other. Stranger. Friend.
This world is all I’ve known, is all I know.
Yet, for all that, it is not All, I know.

Rich Clarkson, November 2021

Another title suggestion from a friend…

I wrote this in response to a suggestion on Facebook. It took a dark turn but I’m quite pleased that I kept the rhyme going!

She sat there on the tattered couch, a somewhat
jaded figure, nursing an emotional numb spot
around her parents’ fall. Her mum got
struck by lightning and some son-of-a-gun chopped
down her dad so now there’s only one lot
of the family left. In the sun’s hot
rays she felt herself become what
she’d tried so hard to hide from. Not
any longer joined but, like a plum dropped
from its tree, an orphaned kumquat.

Rich Clarkson, February 2021

Snowdrops, which usually appear towards the end of January, have long been associated with Candlemas. Their lantern flowers are a symbol of the light of Christ shining in the darkness of the world.

When the days drag on and the nights hang heavy
When the weight of the world is already a burden we struggle to bear
When we’re painfully aware of the barriers between us,
When six feet feels like light years
And we wish that our loved ones were right here
In the darkness the flame flickers on

When the tears fall so freely at nothing at all
And a day can be made by a call from a friend
When we spend our time locked in, locked down, locked apart
And our hearts ache with loss for the world that once was
Or because of what might have been
In the darkness the flame flickers on

When the ground, like our grief, is frozen and bare
When the floods swirl around and the air fills with mist
So we can’t see what lies in the distance
And our very existence requires a persistence
That’s taking its toll, when it’s hard to feel whole
In the darkness the flame flickers on

Because buried beneath the bare surface of earth
Is a seedbank of hope
As the Candlemas snowdrops defiantly show
What their Christ-light lanterns can do
As they break through and make the soil sing
And they bring the first glimmers of spring
A reminder that this too shall pass.
Just as winter is defeated by a flower in the grass
So at long last will our long frost melt
And the darkness we’ve felt for so long will be gone
And the Christ-light flame flickers on.

Rich Clarkson, January 2021

Read some books
Sing some songs
Ride my bike from time to time
Cook some food
Play some games
Write some poems (make them rhyme)
Hug my parents
See my friends
Get a vaccine when it comes
Drink some coffee
Pray some prayers
That’s my plan for ’21

Rich Clarkson, New Year’s day 2021

The tree enters the new year much the same
as every year, with empty branches save
a few resigned leaves clinging to the flame
of life. They are not obstinate or brave
they are just there.  It knows the old routine –
the long, hard nights as winter’s cold embrace
holds sap and sunlight captive.  One day green
will wash away the whites and golds and greys
of winter, but for now the pale light shows
bare arms, snow-shrouded roots.  A narrow ring,
engraved upon the heartwood as it grows,
will hold this winter tree’s remembering.
The year is done and much is gained and lost,
all held within the tree ring and the frost.

Rich Clarkson, New Year’s Eve 2020