Well of Love
by John Beresford
Copyright 2012 John Beresford
War of Nutrition
Contents
Author's Notes
Moontree
Seasons
Well of Love
True Friends
The Rarest Bloom
Seagull
Glasses
Tumbleweed
Safe Haven
What Life?
Casing the Show
Boredom
Eggs, Chips and Peas
The Techie
Mordent Notes
A Day In The Life
About the Author
Author’s Notes
Most of these poems, written between 2000 and 2006, were originally posted on my website. Now I’m offering them in this free package, which includes one previously unpublished verse and some other small changes, for e-readers.
The explanatory notes which previously accompanied the poems do not appear in this version. Your own interpretations are thereby liberated.
If you like this introduction to my poetry then look out for my second volume — Valentine Wine — which follows shortly and includes a couple of examples of more… adult… content.
John Beresford
June 2012
Moontree
Cold crystal light shines faint above
While I sleep on and dream of love
That once would sit about my feet
Share whispered words and single beat
On mouldering leaves an old wolf prowls
Tormented by the light he howls
And leaves me to the biting cold
With woody stories never told
Of silver face that takes the mind,
Or grips the soul and shakes the kind
Of heart that may be set to break,
Or moves the very Earth to quake
Wood thoughts are mine of damp and moss
My branches, wind-blown, bend and toss
But I will stretch to touch the moon
For daylight will be here too soon
Seasons
Spring in your step, the way to school
Is filled with conjured danger
You never see the hidden fool
You always trust the stranger
Learn and grow is what you do
Playing by the book
Decide which friend's to go to
By what their mothers cook
Summer days fly past so quick
You bask in golden glory
Job, wife, kids come fast and thick
The while you write your story
No time to sit, or think, or plan
Doors open if one closes
Rush to impress, to be a man
Forget to smell the roses
The Fall can come in just one night
You may not hear it coming
But wake in sweat a dreadful fright
Your world no longer humming
For quietly drop the leaves of life
And soon the tree is bare
The kids leave home, and then your wife
Remembered in your prayer
Winter comes to end the year
With snow upon the rooftop
Your pace, though slow, is without fear
Your ticker’s in the pawnshop
Now spring, and youth, are both long past
And rest your sole desire
Those schoolday friends are joined at last
Your place saved by the fire.
Well of Love
In a cool glade stands a well, its brickwork time and fortune rimed
The aged structure steadfast waits in silence undisturbed
Couples passing through the dell remark the pitch with droppings grimed
Pass on with saddened smiles and happy voices quickly curbed
The winch is rusted all to hell, the bucket's handle broken
The days long past when succour sought within its clammy shaft
What livid tales the fount could tell, though not a word is spoken,
Of love ignored, of hopes that died and unrewarded graft
Though oft abused the well has been when giving of its waters
Drawn not for thirst yet other tasks command its precious prize
For fighting fires and keeping clean; a drop saved for his daughters
Whilst all about the withering grass from heat of anger dries
Yet still down deep the pool is clear, its welling source untainted
The water fresh as e'er it was despite being long untried
Stepped onto stage a maiden fair, her short-cropped hair bright painted
Gold in the sun and in that ray the damaged well she spied
While walking slow cross blighted sward the lady's face is saddened
With that first glance alone she understands the poor well's plight
Then gently smiles, her love outpoured, and all around are gladdened
Beneath her steps the grass springs new; shrugs off soul winter's blight
Soft summer rain falls in the glade like tears of love awakened
And piercing shafts of sunlight pure illuminate the green
Under her charm the well remade and all was bent is straightened
The maiden's hand removes all trace of distress there has been
My well is deep and filled anew with ’freshing waters running
The rusty winch now smoothly runs, the bucket's handle whole
The water drawn refreshes you at end of long day's sunning
Its flavour pure, tasting yet more becomes your lifelong goal
Like any well, when water's drawn, seems not a drop diminished
The well of love cannot be plumbed by buckets large or small
My love for you from its first dawn I knew would ne'er be finished
Though limitless in its supply, still you will have it all.
True Friends
True friendship - a rare art
No teaching can impart
Elusive to most though not others
Some folk think they've many
Whilst some don't have any
There are those believe all men are brothers
What makes a true friend?
You know in the end
"One in need" is youth's drumming that lingers
The one thing that you
Will be lucky to do
Is to count them all on one hand's fingers
You walk life never seeing
The fact that you're being
Yourself is all marked to your credit
The deeds you have done
Match the hearts you have won
Though no-one explicitly said it
Your joy when they've grown,
Hospitality shown
The day when you shared someone's grief
The touch or the word
With which you have stirred
A beaten man's lost self-belief
A shoulder to cry on,
A lift to rely on
When personal transport is lacking
Someone moving house
Hears not grumble or grouse
As you help with the lifting and packing
All this you have done
In a spirit of fun
Never once with a thought of repayment
But just for the crack,
For the slap of a back
And the drinking of draughts drawn by draymen
That you keep from their lives
And the smiles of their wives
For year upon year never sours
Friendship - it's not weighed
By the length of your stay
Good times are not measured
in hours
And then, being burned,
To your friends you returned
When you need them the most there they are
To share with a smile,
Let you stay for a while
Or to help you to find your lost star
Not judgemental nor critics,
No deep metaphysics
But accepting and caring and strong
With a coffee or tea
Or the offer of me
You know, with True Friends, you belong!
The Barbary chicken
Was fine - finger lickin!
Ten-pin bowling was quite up to scratch
The beer that we drank,
Sunday tea, pool balls sank
Hushed words walking back from the Test Match
So I'd like to toast you,
For I've had to coast to
This point to see how I am blessed
With True Friends abounding,
The corner I'm rounding
No longer alone or depressed
A truth is revealed,
If ever concealed,
At the last with all said and all done
Though you might think it trite
Yet this saw has it right
To have a True Friend you must be one
The Rarest Bloom
Upon a sun-drenched urban street
An old apartment stands
Cool green protects the entrance to a dark forbidding hall
Outside, the city people greet;
Absorbed within their plans
Unseen by them but close, with soundless whisper dry leaves fall
For in the block, in unit five,
Upon a lacquer table
There sits a withered plant that once brought joy to all around
Though close to death the bud survives,
So far as she is able
And strives to brighten lives of those who cannot hear her sound
The master of the house ignores
The prize to which he's blind
The rarest bloom that shares his life he starves of love and care
Untidiness and other flaws
Distract his vapid mind
Dull life so occupies him he just does not see, or dare
This flower's drooping petal hides
A soul that should be treasured
True beauty sleeps beneath the leaf that now seems old and dry
Unknown to all in secret bides;
It never has been measured
Would there be one knew how to look, full certain he'd espy
A tale of unrelenting pain,
Sustained for many years
Of how this fount of glamour stays neglected and despised
Like favoured book is read again;
Remembering bitter tears
The unique plant's potential still remains unrealised
Until one day an Englishman
Walks by the curtained casement
And casts a furtive glance into the room wherein it lies
He catches breath, for see he can
And peers into the basement
It seems to him the plant calls to be rescued ere she dies
The threshold crossed, the passage walked,
So faces he the door
Which opens to his knock revealing cold disordered home
His gaze falls on the tired stalk
Which from the street he saw
Ears dead to futile protests from the interfering gnome
"Oh wondrous herb, oh beauteous gift
That should not here be sleeping,"
He cries, distraught to see the pain so close, before her kneels
To fuddled sloth he gives short shrift
In manner of her keeping
And cups cool draught to quench the thirst for life within he feels
Now deep within the flaccid leaves
A touch of colour glows
A hint of recognition from the heart whose trust he's won
As if to saviour's breast she cleaves;
A kindred spirit knows
He stirs her soul, he offers life where life before was none
Then snatches up the pot and strides
Unheeding from the place
Returning home cross storm tossed sea while withered bloom recovers
Protected in his love she bides
Yet feels a world of space
And in that space she shoots anew; dares dream of friends and lovers
Transplanted to his garden how
The thriving twig surprises
Where fresh clean air and gentle rain bring budding life anew
Though indoor stem was planted now
A perfect tree arises
Her blossom, wind strewn, carpets all with soft yet striking hue
Today the tree triumphant stands,
Her boughs and leaves outspread
Of past life's painful memories no outward scars remain
A resting place for lovers' hands,
A pillow for their heads
Strong and free her spirit soars and heartwood bears his name
Seagull
Sat atop the sodium lamp
Peering through the foggy damp
Coolly watch the world go by
Dream of distant sea dashed sky
Screech defence at fever pitch
Cold breeze brings familiar itch
Stretch your wings before you go
Pass remark on those below
Glasses
The glass is crystal, clear and bright
Its stem a classy sweeping line
The subtle cuts reflect blue light
No fingerprints to mar its shine
Six perfect clones upon the table
Mahogany beneath them glows
Best china settings, each with label
And into perfect glass, wine flows
With one brief taste the spell is broken
The wine is corked, its flavour sour
Though looks are shared no word is spoken
Save statements of how late the hour
At last, alone, the charges fly
The look is all, does flavour matter?
The glass misplaced - distracted eye
And, falling to the floor, it shatters.
Well of Love Page 1