Another winter gone. Another spring
grows bolder, though she’s seen it all before,
Five hundred times. She knows what it will bring.
She watches as Wild Apple, Chaffinch, Gorse,
splash colour all across the misty hill
and bees, enchanted, rush to drink their fill.
“Come on!” they cry, “join in!”, but she holds on,
her leafy fists clenched tight a little longer.
Winter’s final throes will soon be gone
so, patiently, she lets the sun grow stronger.
Raven joins her high up in the air
as they keep sacred watch over the year.
And I watch with them, fleeting in their sight,
As I am cleansed by spring’s refreshing light.

(c) Rich Clarkson 2023

Photo by Susan Lindblom fineartamerica.com

Written for our long-awaited Carol Service which was cancelled 2 years in a row due to covid. Despite having all that time to work on it I actually finished this at 4.30pm on the day of the service! I read it as an introduction to the carol Silent Night, which we sang by candlelight with the church lights off.

When the darkening days deepen, drawing us in
When the world wears her weatherworn ice hardened skin
When the night time is near before day can begin
And we bear the bleak burden of winter

When the silent night holds us, familiar and close,
When we carefully tread through a world of shadows
When the rafters resound with angelic echos
And our hearts hold the weight of our wondering

When our focus is drawn by a flickering flame
When the edges are blurred but the centre remains
May we see through the darkness the one who is named
As the bearer, the bringer of light.

Then may we carry that brightness from those gone before
May we pass on the torch to a yet unseen dawn
As we share this light may we know once more
that Christ our saviour is born

(c) Rich Clarkson 2022

Photo by Max Beck on Unsplash

As the sun rose in the morning
And the birds sang in the trees
You drew me close and held me
And you said you had to leave
And I sang my song of love to you
But it couldn’t bring you back
So I sang farewell my love

As the sun hung in the midday sky
And the fields turned pale and gold
I wondered where you were now
And if you’d found a hand to hold
And I sang my song of love to you
But it couldn’t bring you back
So I sang farewell my love

As the sun set in the valley
Turning crimson as it fell
I thought about our life here
In this place we knew so well
And I sang my song of love to you
But it couldn’t bring you back
So I sang farewell my love

Now the moon waits in the night sky
And the stars all hold their breath
And the sun, like you, is far away
Held by memory and regret
And I sing my song of love to you
Though it will not bring you back
So I sing farewell my love

(c) Rich Clarkson 2022

Photo by Rob Pumphrey on Unsplash

New Song: Amma

I wrote this song at Holland House for a retreat led by Nicola Slee. We were exploring her wonderful book “Abba Amma: Improvisations on the Lord’s Prayer” and in the afternoon were encouraged to try writing our own.

The starting point was imaging Jesus going up into the hills to pray and encountering Amma (Mother) God and it is flavoured with memories of walking with my mum up on Stiperstones. All the clauses of the Lord’s prayer are in there if you know where to look!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

LYRICS:
You wore a crown of mistletoe
I wore a garland of bramble
Out where the purple heather grows
Beneath the cliffs where rock hares ramble
Among the bilberries I lay
As with your gentle voice you called me
I watched the summer sun on your face
It shone with power and with glory

A flock of geese flew overhead
Tearing the sky with sound and feather
Their endless quest for daily bread
Bearing them them westward together
And as we watched the leaves drift down
And autumn told its broken story
You lifted off your mistletoe crown
Which shone with power and with glory

The ash tree shivered in the breeze
Paying its debt back to the winter
A hidden cache of squirrelled seeds
Offering deliverance for the future
You laid your crown down on the floor
And as I watched it there before me
The whole world was transformed
And filled with power and with glory

You wore a crown of mistletoe
I wore a garland of bramble
The springtime flowers blossomed and flowed
Covering the earth with joyful tangle
Like a child I came to you
And you were waiting, just like always
I curled up in your arms so true
Held with power and with glory

(c) Rich Clarkson 2022

Photo by Maria Vojtovicova on Unsplash

As she enters the shed she finds it’s a portal
A gateway to worlds where no-one has been
It’s tangled with threads and she stays ’til she’s caught all
The wonders, the pearls, of her beautiful dreams
Then she gathers them up and she holds them tight
Takes a sip from her cup and she starts to write

She was seven years old when she first felt her powers
In front of the fire on the old leather chair
The tales that she told were like tools which were now hers
To amuse and inspire, or to challenge and scare
Delicious and strange, she started to see
The way stories can change what the world can be

As the words flow from her pen
She rewrites the universe again and again
And the rules which the outside world
has to endure are no more
They’re all swept away
By the words which flow from her pen
She stretches her vision still further and then
As the light starts to fade she comes back home
But each time reality is harder to find

Her audience grew with her imagination
Each follower a feather propelling her flight
Like Icarus she flew, and each incantation
Lifted them together to dizzying heights
There were no limits to where they could go
Millennia or minutes, time changed its flow

As the words flow from her pen
She rewrites the universe again and again
And the rules which the outside world
has to endure are no more
They’re all swept away
By the words which flow from her pen
She stretches her vision still further and then
As the light starts to fade she comes back home
But each time reality is harder to find

Now she wanders the streets in a dusty grey raincoat
Wrapped in a world she’s made for herself
With her eyes on her feet, she knows she’s a scapegoat
But the words that are hurled she keeps on a shelf
She bottles them up and seals them tight
Takes a sip from her cup and she starts to write

And as the words flow from her pen
She rewrites the universe again and again
And the pain which the outside world
has to endure is no more
It’s all swept away
By the words which flow from her pen
She stretches her vision still further and then
As the light starts to fade she chooses to stay
And this time reality is hers to design

(c) Rich Clarkson 2022

Photo by Marina on Unsplash

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