Skimming Stones

Surely only a handful of summers have passed,
Since I jumped the white chalked squares
On the shiny black slugs of melting tarmac?
Long halcyon days filled with playgrounds and parks,
In which hung a shimmering heat-haze
Which levitated above the hot grainy concrete.
Holidays of sipping iced-lemonade, my skin tinged pink
From the rays which danced in the palest of blues.
Surely only a small bouquet of nights have passed,
Each nocturnal hour filled with scents of blossom,
Since I read of the Famous Five by the landing’s pale glow.

And now my reflection is patterned with lines of middle age.
How did I sink like a painted pebble into these murky depths?
Did I skim that stone before it sank?
Polish it against my hip before hurling it
Seawards, to bounce and pirouette upon the surface?
And why does my mother’s face look back from the mirror?
Is it a trick of the light? Her tired eyes, her lips,
Puckered with a life of conversation.
A private prank played on me by shadows, as
The poised pencil which draws the circle of life,
Rises, tick by slow tock, to meet its starting point.

Yes I’ve skimmed the stone countless times,
And lived, and loved, and laughed.
I’ve born three babies and watched them grow
And skip the hopscotch squares themselves.
I’ve walked on Arabian sand, smiled at Amalfi’s coast,
I’ve prayed in Rome and sailed Californian seas.
Imagined friends lie inside the folios of my novel
Written in captured moments from the hullaballoo,
The hubbub and the topsy-turvy of life’s pages.
Yes, my lines of age tell of a life well-lived.
Happy in my skin, I’ve earned my stripes.

Angela Barton

A Bouquet Of Memories

My resting place, a crescent of golden sand
Cradles my bouquet of life’s memories
As my shadow touches the sparkling rock pools,
Glinting like splintered glass.

Crumbling cliffs guard my spirit,
As Lowry figures, heads bowed against whipping winds
Trudge along the snaking path.
Steps my worldly self once trod.

And still the gaping cave yawns seaward, my childhood refuge
From sea dragon and pirates bold.
And there I met my love one summer’s day
In the mouth of that cave, when he stole my first kiss.

Wed on these sands, flowing gown, a smile
And blissful tears beneath wide blue skies
As cousins frolicked and wine was sipped,
Now gentle zephyrs carry my soul.

Slice of melon grins on our children’s faces,
As my love and I sat hand in hand
By the bubbling breeze-stirred shallows.
My voice now whispers through russet leaves.

Embracing the wind which blows through my presence,
And whisks away troubles into raging seas
As gales stir the oceans and rainbows shine resplendent
With each skyward-tossed champagne spray.

My spirit floats with fragrant blossoms
Carried on a summer’s breeze, then as night falls
And stars a-light, sweet remembrance of my life
As I dance with angels on gossamer thread.

My ashes are strewn in sighing rushes,
Soft surging dunes and well-trodden paths
Which meander through meadows of larkspur and daisy,
As I watch and remember, and wait for my love.

Angela Barton

Perfumed Hedgerows

I am delighted to find out that a recent poem I entered into a competition, was successful. The theme for the poety competition was, The Great Outdoors. I hope you enjoy reading it and it makes you want to pull on your walking boots and set off into the hills! Perfumed Hedgerows

Across the expanse of patchwork fields

A mist lies low,

Like a froth of fungi on forgotten fruit.

The moon's corona fades in the morning light

As pearls of dew hang from quivering webs.

The sun's warmth unfurls sleeping blooms

Which stretch and spread

Beneath the oak's vast canopy.

Trees sway on summer's sombre sighs,

Their branches draped in ivy necklaces

Clinging possessively.

Perfumed hedgerows wear budding flowers

Whilst pink blossoms blush and froth.

And boat-shaped puffs of cloud sail across the blue,

As yesterday's puddles are highlighted

With warm golden beams

As the sun's blaze awakens.

A shimmering heat-haze hovers

Trembling and twitching,

Levitating and dispersing the soft mist.

Swirling aromas

Of mown grass and honey-suckle

Drift through open windows,

Stretching smiles on faces who breathe

Its subtle scent.

Taking thoughts away from toil

Urging those who smell the summer breeze

To explore and delight

In the great outdoors.

By Angela Barton

How Fleeting Is A Life-time?

This is a piece of fiction I've written on the theme of 'ghost,' for my writing group.

It all looked the same from my vantage point. Every tree, every rock pool, each undulation of the cliff top. The sea pounding the shore, spraying waves like celebratory champagne. The thunderous grey cliffs framing the beach as Lowry figures, heads bowed against the whipping wind, trudged along the snaking muddy footpaths. Gloved hands thrust deep inside pockets and hoods pulled up over cold red ears. Storm-tossed rocks resembling ancient spines of dinosaurs, jutted into the pale sand. Jagged fragments of rock, ready to slice toes as crabs were hunted in thick soupy puddles.

The gaping entrance of a cave yawned seawards. As a child, that cave had been my castle, my wigwam, my refuge from angst. It was a safe haven from the sea dragon which lurked around the next bay. I had my first kiss in the mouth of that cave. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed until that summer's day. His name was Jude Morgan, a bronzed skinny youth I'd met in school. He'd pulled my hair and stolen my strawberry laces in previous years. Who'd have thought he'd be my love for one glorious summer? I remember how our footsteps echoed as we crunched on weathered shells underfoot. How water trickled down the walls of the cave, dribbling and gurgling through lichen and moss. We prised clinging limpets and barnacles from the damp rocks. Hour after arid hour they'd wait, until the moon drew the sea back up the beach to immerse them again. Too late for some - our thoughtless young fingers had found them first. I wondered where Jude was now.

In the distance I watched the ferry carrying visitors across the estuary, expectant, eager to reach their destination. Ready to invade the gift shops. Pennies to spend on a stick of rock, a wooden lighthouse, home-made fudge and postcards which would never be sent. The reds, blues and yellows of boat hulls reflecting dappled rainbows in the choppy water. Bunting, whipped by the breeze, flapped and flickered to the cry of the gulls which followed returning fishing boats. Sticky candy floss fingers were licked and sucked clean by pink-stained tongues.

I recall our summer wedding. A warm day full of tip-toeing bare feet, new hats and a flowing gown on the warm sand. I wore flowers in my hair and shells hung from my tanned, un-lined neck. A blessing by the sea and vows made with blissful tears. The bare sky had smiled on us that day as cousins frolicked and wine was sipped. No sulking grey clouds puckered their brows at us that day.

From high above the bustling resort, I watched fathers kneeling with sons by the quayside, catching crabs on long pieces of bacon-laden string. I recalled my husband crouching by our son's side at this very harbour's edge many years ago. Lovingly fixing scraps from breakfast onto the string as carefully as a surgeon's hands. I remember the slice-of-melon-shaped grins on their faces as crabs were slowly raised for inspection. What pink and grey claw-clad treasures they were to a five year old. Was our son now re-living his childhood adventures with his children?

I turn back to view the beach. So many picnics, so many castles decorated with pebbles, so many squeals of delight as young legs leapt over knee-high waves. How we loved to dig our toes deeply into the warm soft sand and find the cool damp grains below, or sit by the water's edge and let the bubbles tickle our feet. Summers spent with friends, sharing blankets and laughter and striped wind breaks. Bulging pocket full of pink shells. We threw driftwood for our spaniels, teasing with lengths of seaweed and digging for treasure. Remembering - long shadows, fish sizzling on a barbeque, Pimms in a jug and love in our hearts.

Sheep still silently grazed in a nearby field beneath trees bent into submission from the ocean gales. I used to love it when the wind howled along the bay. It blew troubles out into the raging seas to be swallowed and forgotten beneath its depths. The wind whisked the waves into splinters of light which sparkled in the air like Swarkovski crystals. They hushed up the damp frown-furrowed sand, carrying cart-wheeling smooth ocean-tossed pebbles.

How fleeting is a life-time? How blessed I was to have lived and loved. Mortal no more, I am the rhythm of the flowing seas. I am the whispering of the waves and the breeze in the leafy canopies. I am the soaring leaves whipped up by storms and the grains beneath your feet. I am the shimmer of a heat wave and the scent of May blossom carried on a spring breeze. I am the glow of a milky moon and the warmth of the rays on a summer day.

My ashes are whisked into whispering rushes, the surging sand dunes and dusty coastal paths. I rest in flowerbeds which burst with fresh promise each year. I nestle amongst the plump clusters of purple-beaded blackberries, waiting for careful fingers to pluck them for tea. I watch over my blood-line as they re-trace my steps, making their own memories in the crescent of the bay.

Flowering Redcurrant

Underneath the silver birch
They'd hang pink with pleasure,
Blushing blossoms
Full and frothing.
Beneath the birch's lolling leaves
I'd read, or sing or dream,
And look through dappled light
To pale bare skies
Where contrails paint across the blue.
Small fingers fashioning necklaces
From a constellation
Of crimson-tinged daisies
Dotted on the lawn.
The smell of earth, damp and raw,
Grass-stained knees and the tantalising
Whispers of summer on the breeze.
I'd lie beneath those verdant boughs
Embraced in their beauty.
And even today,
When years have passed,
I'll smell the flowering redcurrant
And remember,
And smile.

A childhood memory, by Angela Barton