I just about managed to complete my tanka series for Lent. Here are a few from the final few days.

Palm Sunday

on the approach
to the occupied city
cry hosanna
not knowing how salvation
might be torn from heaven

Monday, March 30

as shouts recede
and the temple empties
a donkey waits,
uneasy stones balanced on
his soft and naked back

Good Friday

in museums
you seek infinity
and play old games,
use knots and pieces of wood
to find a way forward

Saturday, April 4

chasing the past
across empty bridges
and up bare slopes,
you hear words spoken by streams
and tread on broken stones

Easter Sunday

stones roll away
revealing emptiness
inside the hill:
the light leaps and tumbles out
filling receptive hearts

I didn’t want to give up chocolate or alcohol; so instead I decided to write a tanka a day for Lent. Here is a brief selection so far:

crosses of stone
shadow the evening road
as music plays
pilgrims break uneasy ground
going against the flow

high tides threaten
to overcome pale coasts
and sweep inland
while your undefended eyes
see nothing untoward

crocuses burst
on to the hill, claiming
it for spring:
by the cold sun I see you
sheltering in the stones

frost-coated grass
stands like spears until the sky
burns out its blood:
you ask about autumn love,
I reply too quickly

There is no roof on the hermit’s cell,
which makes it easier
to contact heaven

Stones and bones stud the hill above
firmly embedded
in it for the long haul

Old fortifications hang round
like a necklace
rock threaded to rock

And from the summit
the cell is a ring
dropped into the wilderness
between sea and sea

where no-one passes,
and only angels linger,
gathering forgotten prayers

This one of a number of my poems about Iona, published this week in a 48-page paperback, The Road Ends, with accompanying photographs. It is available from me by hand for £5, or £6 if I have to post it to you. Contact me at the e-mail address at the bottom of this page.

Next morning, the valley was covered with swans
white for purity
gifts of the spirit

we had been searching the city with lamps
rooting out complacency

we found the dregs of wine
in dusty cellars
and people told us
nothing would happen
either good or bad

there was a blurring of boundaries
and the keys to the kingdom
had been laid aside
the gates unguarded

no-one expected the swans
not even the priests and princes

purity destroys crooked paths
gifts burn the fingers of the idle

Something is required of me
I stand on the quay
as the moon folds itself
over the incoming tide

Something is required of me
the sky is full of rain
bells do not ring
there are dogs in the streets

Something is required of me
I climb to the highest point
of the yellow hill
I am surrounded

Something is required of me
I have touched each magic stone
but there is no voice

I fall in love with an island girl
hair black as a forgotten dream
eyes like the sea
and she brings songs to me

I cannot hold her
she dissolves like salt
in the ancient air
on the angels’ hill

Something is required of me
something silver perhaps
something seen from the side

I close my eyes
but cannot sleep

Something is required of me
I go to Columba’s Bay
and throw many stones
into the sea

I wrote this poem while staying on Iona earlier this year

In the dying evening, when the sun has passed on
but its memory remains
you stand beside the jousting grounds
and listen for sounds of war
among the gilded houses

The river is out of sight, so too the city walls;
a hundred years ago
there was coming and going much like this
until the balance shifted

You look for the shadows of those who walked away
and find ripples in the air,
thunder and lightning in the distance

You wonder if you know too much
or too little

You wish that names on Norwich graves
did not fade so quickly

This poem was written for a commemoration service at St Augustine’s Church, Norwich, on 3 August 2014. It contains references to the parish as well as to the first world war.

looking for dry ground,
he quarters the fields
but the flood plain here
could swallow an army

and suck birds from the sky

his unnatural boat
crawls from lane to lane
obeying speed limits
colliding with the unknown

something moving under water

it is too late for retreat
strategies have gone down
and do not resurface:
a new landscape is being formed

grey islands taking shape

there are rumours of different tides
retrenchment
new offensives
brave new worlds

cures for drowning

looking for dry ground
he searches the old maps
the front lines
the ways home, seeking

the infinitesimal edge

 This poem relates firstly to the floods in Somerset and secondly to the mud in which so many soldiers drowned in the first world war: so it is doubly topical.

After months in the trenches
unexpectedly
daffodils broke through at dawn
and have occupied
the back garden

They make no onward move,
standing at ease as if
awaiting further orders

It should all be over soon:
there is thunder in the distance

But for the moment
a still sky spills sun
on to the tortured earth,
over the top,
creating a masterpiece

And so I have gone over
to the other side:
fresh voices echo into the future,
becoming distant,

and leave me behind,
sitting on the dock,
the wind sweeping lazily across
unfamiliar shallows

An absence of snakes
fills me
with foreboding

Heavy-bodied,
I am a pelican
waddling on the boards,
mouth sharp, grotesque,
getting nowhere

I know there is more:
I watch my brother birds
launch themselves
into the grace of God

where they transform,
skim the waves,
fly like a dream

Holding my ground,
I wish I could let go