Frank Colley

The meadow calls

The meadow calls us with its siren song

To lose ourselves in waving depths of green

Where flower-fish among the tall stalks throng

In silent shoals, and shrill goldfinches preen.

The meadow calls, we wade through golden motes

Of feathered seeds, wing-flutter, flute-bird notes,

A sea of springing summer, powered by

Bee-hum, with hawk wings holding up the sky.

How did it go?

The strambotto apparently originated in France, and in Medieval Italy referred to a short poetic piece, of no great value, popular ballad-type of thing. I chose the iambic pentameter option, and the Tuscan strambotto because the rhyme scheme is more varied, ABABCCDD. I find this kind of poetry easy to write, but hard to make it say anything interesting. To my ear, it remains firmly old-fashioned whatever I do with it, and I don’t think it lends itself to a modern reinterpretation. I look at it as a window into slower, more certain times, uncluttered with technology and noise, when people accepted the fact of mystery and didn’t have time for agonising over the futilities that get us wound up today.

Jane Dougherty

May

If I die now I would like to go to May

in England, when the sun glides across the sky

and lights up the fields, the trees a fine array

of leaves and blossom, when days are not yet dry

enough to turn the fecund greens to dull brown. Spring

says to Summer, I am done now take my hand

as I must leave but I truly own the crown

with May my bride, in the beauty of this land.

How Did It Go?

Tim Fellows

Rober Frede Kenter