May 8, 2015

Two Poems by Paul Tristram

Summer on Drummau

We ran down the wooded sides of that Mountain,
rolling, bouncing and leaping.
In, out and around the oak and silver birch,
uncaring of the danger, fluid in our balance and motion.
Catapulting ourselves over mossy, falling down,
loose stone walls, without stopping or slowing down,
feet peddling the air rapidly,
rosy cheeks biting the apple of the sky.
Into caves with home-fashioned spears rigid before us,
looking for ghosts and checking our territories.
Three Summer’s working as farmhands
upon the lush green, sloping side of Her
for fresh chicken eggs for Mother.
Every section of forests, woodlands and quarries
zigzagged and crisscrossed almost daily,
imprinted upon the mind and soul to remain ancient forever.
We were the boys and girls of Cwrt Y Clafdy in Skewen
and we lived right at Her base,
born and bred in the shadow of that Magical Mountain.



 
 
 
 As Deep As The Colour Burgundy
 
Her feelings are velvet tinged, lately.
The dormouse solitude wiped from curious eyes.
There is melody to the moment
if you savour it whilst meandering by.
A faint harpsichord is playing
in a nearby undiscovered room.
As Wonder tapestries together
Imagination with Daydream
and the old Grandfather Clock
slows down his aching voice to watch.
A string of cobwebbed dewdrops
close by the cottage window, outside,
is swinging gently to a heartbeat
of someone lost in time.
Two shelves of colourful elephant tea urns
makes for much more morning smiling than one.
Regret blossoms again with awakening
but is usually unravelled by early afternoon.
Time out is only selfish if you are hiding from yourself.
As deep as the colour burgundy
she oars the boat of thought with
daisy petal and bramble thorn poetry,
carving herself another hour from the magic of the day.

 






Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography 
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids 
instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/
 

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