♦
“Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.”
Mud.
Thick, cloying, seeping.
Consuming, filthy, blanket
binding you as brothers
in mud laden arms.
Bath.
Soap, water, scrub.
Submerged, aching, wallowing
purging you as brothers
in trenches of white.
Search.
Memories, mind, self.
Trapped, engulfed, besieged
chains you as brothers
in images of hell.
Write.
Poetry, prose, horror.
Dredge, expose, release
links you as brothers
in words of truth.
Commemorating the 100th anniversary of the first meeting between Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon at Craiglockhart War Hospital August 1917
The meeting lead to Owen’s haunting ‘war poems’. He was born in Oswestry and lived in my home town of Shrewsbury, England.
‘Poppies for Peace’ Rebecca Pells
We navigate and tack to catch the crest of self-promised waves
like a piston of dreams forth and back they roll
sacrificed upon the altar of age
til one day we understand
there is no harbour
no anchor
no time.
Brief encounters
as ships in the night
horizons glimpsed as sun rises
then fades to dusk before we have basked
lay down precious memory, til synapse eclipse
the hourglass turns and grain sifts with the tide once more.
‘Time Goes Away’
Details from https://www.artfinder.com/manage/rebeccapells/product/time-goes-away/
Images in time, do you still see
the girl who was lost or the woman flown free?
♦
A gathering lining of rich silver hue
clouds part once more to capture anew
one step at a time reluctant to stay
accept at last that time goes away.
♦
The moment has gone, now do you see
the girl who was lost or the woman flown free?
♦
I waited. Two score years then ten.
Boredom reigned as time strode past.
You flirted and waved, your sunlight cast
Till the treadmill called to shackle again.
I carried the promise, I cradled belief
That one morning I would wake
My passion before me there to take.
No longer a dream you were every relief.
♦
And now we dance, the rhythm of life
Intimate moments yet strangers remain
Master and slave passion’s loss and gain
As I strive to please frustration is rife.
Just like a moth I’m drawn to the light
Of creation’s promise, each hue I fashion
I seek the sweet moment of artist’s passion
As I step away to see that all has come right.
♦
‘Yesterday’s Gone’ by Rebecca Pells Fine Art
Listen for the voices urging us heave
quieten the whispers of they who leave.
Those memories which sear recall with care
a wound opened, too sore to bear.
Afraid to forget, moments linger still
tempting and taunting as dreams beyond will.
Nothing to trust but the beckoning haul
of voices and future yet to call.
‘Chasing Reflections’ by Rebecca Pells Fine Art
Are you future or laden past,
joy anew or shadow cast?
Reflections glimpsed as midnight creeps
for which my mirror gently weeps?
‘My Mirror Gently Weeps’
Oil on canvas 50×50 cms
http://www.rebeccapells.co.uk/
You wake one morning and sense a change, a slight shifting of the sand,
a murmured whisper, the faintest touch upon your hand.
Was it the waking from a dream or the mourning of a death,
was it joy anew of passion found or the drawing of first breath?
Was it the void of emptiness or vast realm of possibility,
was it the final release or acceptance of futility?
With a backward glance I view the bridge where yesterday I stalled
until the night stepped forth and accepting as it called
I gave surrender as it carried me across.
I woke this morn and sensed the changing of the guard
Summer’s twilight slipped into autumn’s first dawn.
Reluctant to cross this threshold once more
Au revoir summer’s promise unripened by drought.
And let go the dream sustained by hope
Release that which can no longer be held.
Fade to autumn, the hue I must reside
And cherish sweet memory with wistful smile.
♦
Painting ‘Antique Roses’ by Rebecca Pells
available from https://www.artfinder.com/product/antique-roses-fa34/
♦
The connection we prize, betwixt friendship and love,
more precious than either, the fit like a glove.
Elusive to seek and nebulous when found,
no sudden discovery, a revealing of lives bound.
A sense of arrival of something long sought,
like the missing jig-saw piece long since bought.
♦
The vista of life’s shadow cast into light,
my own wounds you touched, inner turmoil and fight.
Your essence reached out from long hidden time
parallel depths in recognition of mine.
You called out to me, I responded in kind
I cradled your pain for you mine to find.
♦
Suspended by time, the connection a fine thread,
it sways with the seasons to others all but dead.
Poised for nourishment the possibility resides
the strengthening vein the longer it bides.
Two only in my lifetime thus far in time
too precious to waste, oh soulmate of mine!
♦
Painting ‘The Writing Table’ by http://www.rebeccapells.co.uk/
