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| Curtain Call |
| Walking Britain |
| Crowd Control |
| Faith |
| Full Moon |
I stand to applaud among
an audience of dowager hyacinths,
who nod graciously to the pear tree,
which bows its Simon Rattle head
to the porcelain blush of the Sugar Plum
Magnolia, centre stage,
whose curtsy draws in the daffodil chorus,
all swirling skirts, adoring at her feet.
Tickertape blossom drifts down.
Sue Beckwith
Day One
Spread-eagled high on a moor,
heather cushions shelter
a patch of warm sky
and the fluting song of a skylark.
Day Two
Following the chuntering chatter
of a stream, iron gold and brown,
over precarious stepping stones,
encouraged on by the welcoming shout
of a perfect cascade of water.
Day Three
Butterflies balance on a buddleia.
Day Four
A seaweed banner trails
across a beach of treasures;
a pink fingernail shell,
bottle blue and green pebbles,
a tiger striped stone.
Day Five
Hurling my voice and body
into the gale at the top,
cagoule flapping frantically
to hold me back.
Day Six
Rain, and a bowl of soup, steaming,
by the fire of a friendly pub.
Day Seven
A robin flits close by, bright eye glinting,
stops to stare and then hurries on.
A wood pigeon's breathless call fades
as the oak tree's shadow creeps
to rub itself against the stile.
Sue Beckwith
Words to support, words to uplift,
words that sing of pride of place.
Words to rally, words to rouse,
a chant to unify the crowd.
Words to rant, words to hurt,
words that amplify in hate.
Sue Beckwith
Sue Beckwith
16th January 2001
Moonshine's sexy tonight,
veiled with off the shoulder
clouds. Seductive apricot
silken folds slipping
against oyster gold skin.
Soft organza wisps
gather, wrap around
its flawless form,
shameless.
Sue Beckwith