I can hear her sing


I can hear her singing as I pass,
the richnness of her voice,..
the candles on the ends of ancient pews
flicker in the gusty draught
that creeps below the old wood door.
and shadows dance across the walls of stone
as if they hear the sweetness of her song.
the leaded windows lit with warmth
glow welcome to those who come
from encircling hills, bound in winter sleep
and frosted silver by the stars,
while guardian pines stand sentinel,
along the waters edge where new ice gleams...

and now its spring, and many years have passed
but memories remain and call me home
to visit just once more, the glen where the
cuckoos haunting call lingers in the primrose air.
and as I pass the little church
I can hear her sing,
and the richness of her voice...

passers in the night

I could hear them!
I heard them far away, coming through the dark,
in a maelstrom of bodies black with mud,
sickle-horns lowered in defence.
hundred upon hundreds of hooves pounding in the dust,
in the dust of the savannah, in the dark,
black eyes staring, showing white beneath the moon,
breath heaving in the crush, as they run
in the dust of the savannah, in the dark

beyond the waterhole they pass
like a river rushing for the sea, and drumming
in the dust of the savannah, in the dark.
dust spirals in the moonlight, hanging in the air
as all other lives are halted
to let them pass,
in the dust of the savannah, in the dark

and the thrumming and the thundering are as drummers
drumming
in the dust of the savannah, in the dark,
and suddenly its all over, and dust and silence settle
as the buffalo have passed
in a maelstrom of bodies caked in mud,
sickle-horns lowered as they ran
in the dust of the savannah,
in the dark.

And Honey Spills


and there the tree, in sunshine
slept amongst the shadows on the hill
while the buzzard hangs, and drifts,
his cry sharp on limpid air,
and birches shine against the hill
as sheep shift, and shape,
against the green, in country stitches
over drowsy fields
where clover blows and honey spills
its sweetness over all...
and there on wires the swallows
sway and talk of climes more comforting
where red tiles glow
against the white of cottage walls
in cool and shaded streets.
and still the tree in sunshine sleeps,
keeping this fertile land of ours
safe, in place,
among the everlasting stars.


Pim Claridge

Yggdrasil


the clatter and chatter of the lifts was comforting in its familiarity...this was the day, she must, finally, make her decision.

her chair swung gently in the crisp sun, beyond the mountains edge, the sky was deep alpine blue....as far as she could see were glistening slopes of white anticipation...at the summit she stood, lost in thought, looking down to the little village far below...

it was early, the snow still crisp, and in places icy, but the sun promised warmth... she considered the choice of runs before her and quickly made the decision to take the long run down... letting her skis run she seemed to fly…leaving the track she swooped through unbroken snow, leaving long graceful curves in the softness...

her skis hissed over the snow and with her hair blowing into wild tangles she was at one with herself, the exhilaration of speed and space a heady mix....

the woods ahead laid blue shadows accross the whiteness, she headed for the gap... the air was alive with the tang of pines... silent except for the whisper of her skis, patches of sunlight shone through the branches as if someone had dropped paint from their brush.

the trees were thicker here, Sophie slowed, and rounding a turn skidded to a halt..she was in a clearing, tall pines ringed the untrodden snow, everything glinted with ice crystals...

in the centre an ash tree threw patterns over the snow... a white horse waited, his harness of red threaded with gold, jingled in the silence...from the shadows came a tall young man, in his hand shone a pine cone, its tips sparking ice-laser shards of light between the dark trees....

placing the cone in Sophie's cupped hands he said it held her answer, then leaping lightly into the saddle, became lost amongst the tree shadows…a deep silence settled on the clearing…there were no hoofprints to be seen…the ground unmarked in its softness...

the sun was fading as sophie skied the last few slopes, her heart hammering, and struggling for breath...

by a roaring fire in a cosy bar, with snow falling through the darkness...ski tales were exchanged.. taking the fir cone out of her pocket Sophie laid it gently on the table, the iced tips still glittering...

there was an indrawn breath of amazement as everyone leant forward, but no hands reached out..where did you get that someone whispered...in the woods on Mottolino, she answered.. there was a startled pause...and the answer came as a gasp...

there are no woods on Mottolino...

in her room, Sophie took out the cone, and putting it on the table by her bed sat in awe as it throbbed, shaking the ice-tips and sending glints of light over the heavy curtains...a mist wreathed around her for what seemed a lifetime, thoughts jumbled like river rapids...slowly the mist cleared, the throbbing ceased, the ice tips shone with a steady glow...

her decision was made...

pulling back the curtains Sophie looked up at the mountain, in the light of the moon it stood majestically over the village, the unbroken slopes serene with fresh snow...

pim claridge