When The Dragons Came To Play

(For Findley – born 19.04.2016)                                                              

The dragons came again today.
They came in style, as dragons do.
I thought they’d come to eat us up,
But they just wanted to meet… you.

The sky was filled with dragons’ wings
And spiky scales of every hue.
Their amber eyes saw everything,
And glittered when they looked for you.

And the wind in the trees went woooosh, woooosh, shhhhhhh
When the dragons came to play.

They’d heard you were the bravest boy,
You seldom slept or seemed to tire,
But smiled at everything – and laughed
When they came breathing trails of fire.

Legend foretold your bluest eyes,
Sprinkled with magic, three times blessed.
And dust of stars within your heart
Meant you would master any quest.

And the wind in the trees went
woooosh, woooosh, shhhhhhh
When the dragons came to play.

 

They mentioned they had come before,
To barbeque us all, but when
They saw you smiling up at them
They turned and flew back home again.

They wondered if you’d like to go
Up to the mountains – you could fly
Straight to their lair on dragons’ wings,
And ride across the morning sky.

They’d make some toast with just one breath,
Play hide-and-seek behind the sun –
There were so many of their games
That you could try. You’d have such fun.

And the wind in the trees went woooosh, woooosh, shhhhhhh
When the dragons came to play.

I said we would consider that,
Though we had lots of things to do.
(It always pays to be polite
When dragons want to play with you.)

 

They said they’d take the greatest care,
That they would never let you fall.
They’d play some dragon games to see
How brave you really were, that’s all…

They promised not to breathe on you,
Would bring you back in time for tea.
I thanked them very much, but said
I’d like to keep you here – with me.And the wind in the trees went woooosh, woooosh, shhhhhhh
When the dragons came to play.

One dragon tapped his claw and hummed
A little tune. He looked quite nice,
Until I asked him if he knew
You had the gift of Fire and Ice?

The dragon’s scales turned pasty grey,
“And ice?” he stuttered, blinking fast.
I nodded. You sat there and smiled.
“Good grief, is that the time?” he laughed.

 

You traced a pattern on your hand.
A snow storm came, icicles grew.
The dragon’s breath puffed white with frost,
His ruby tail turned wintry blue.

Snowflakes swirled, the north wind howled,
Dark clouds gathered, spitting rain.
But then you sighed a little sigh
And everything was calm again.

“It was an honour meeting you,”
The dragon bowed; soared to the sky.
A thousand wings beat after him
Into the sun. We waved Goodbye.

And the wind in the trees went woooosh, woooosh, phhewwwww
When the dragons flew away.

 * * * * * * *

This poem was inspired by Findley, the smiliest, happiest baby that dragons have ever seen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kay Leitch
Treasure This
kaywritesheretoo.wordpress.com

Pictures: Kay Leitch, Vicki Boyd; images: Pixabay

 

 

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Ploughing for inspiration

As a city girl, growing up first in London and then industrial Luton, I never dreamed that one day I’d spend more time in wellies than heels – and become a farmer! But that was where my career led me for more than a decade. In a beautiful corner of rural Essex I learned to drive tractors and spent each autumn ploughing the heavy boulder clay from dawn to dusk, and sometimes into the night. Acre after acre.

The experience turned me into ‘a watcher’, mindful of any tiny change in the landscape. And it forged a deep spiritual connection, especially with the other watchers who sometimes showed up … The deer, for instance, who scattered at the sight of a human figure, yet never seemed bothered by the to and fro of our monster machines as they strained across the fields.

The Watchers

Autumn has drawn a foggy curtain

Over the farm by the church,

Trading rich summer gold for burnt coppers

Scattered and spent among the leaves.

 

In the fading gloom

A tractor driver traces patterns

Across the ploughed land.

Absorbed in mechanical rhythm he moves,

Away from the church, towards the wood,

Away from the wood, towards the church,

Changing the face of the earth

With every pass.

 

A noise disturbs him

Jangling off-beat and out-of-tune.

Resigned and weary he climbs from the cab

To fumble in the mud

And remove a rusty horse shoe

Hooked up in the harrows.

How many bouts to go?

How many have been here before?

 

Later, turning into the homeward stretch,

With just enough light to see,

He is startled by two deer

Watching close by

Like statues – strange, silent and beautiful,

Unperturbed by his roaring machine

As it strains across the heavy clay.

And in that dusky moment

His heart misses a beat,

Filled with splendour so measureless

He holds his breath

Knowing it will slip away.

 

The last rays melt behind the spire.

As he reaches the lane, he yawns,

Thinking of supper and a good night’s rest.

The seedbed is ready, the pattern is complete.

Poem by Jenny Landor

Illustrations by Julia Draper

Autumn fun in a nutshell

Apples, blackberries and pumpkins… Nature’s grand autumnal finale always triggers in me a kind of elation no other season can match. Ever since childhood, it’s been my favourite time of year. The shortening days, tinged with melancholy, the smell of ploughed earth and the prospect of bonfires are definitely part of it. And I still can’t resist kicking up the leaves – especially under the horse chestnuts where the greatest treasure of all might suddenly gleam up at me: the perfect conker.

Preparing for combat

Last week saw the celebration of one of the country’s most traditional games at the World Conker Championship in Southwick, Northamptonshire. Organised by the Ashton Conker Club, the contest has been running for fifty years. It attracts thousands of visitors and teams from the around the world who fight it out like gladiators, armed only with a nut and 12 inches of string. All of which prompted me to add the following piece of fun to our creative archive. Someone once told me that it isn’t just about good hand-eye coordination and the desire to conquer. You have to psych your opponent out …

Just a game

Okay, now here’s the thing
It’s a nut on the end of a knotted string.
You hit mine, I SMASH yours …
Yes, let’s go play out of doors.
This is my favourite,
See that gleam?
It knows it’s on the winning team.
Good question; how can I possibly tell?
I partly oven-baked the shell.
Ha! Only joking.
Are you ready?
Three fat misses!
My turn, hold steady.
No, the sun wasn’t in your eyes.
That’s the rule, you had your tries.
What’s wrong?
Oh, please.
Don’t go bonkers,
It’s just a simple game of conkers.

William the Conker leading his minion hordes.

Poem and photo by Jenny Landor
Illustration by Julia Draper