Words by A Wensley

A landscape portrait of the 20th of January 2025 Quintessentially English rain  Drips from the green, moss-thatched eaves of Rose Cottage, a pink-rendered chocolate box, Faded Jigsaw-box scene; A country lane leading to a Gallox Bridge Bordered by a brook  and strategically placed stones, Unsuitable for motorists, no parking. The scent of chimney smoke a long way from the fires in LA. It's January in Dunster. To walk these cobbled pavements Is to walk the ups and downs of life itself, with care, and precariously. The sound of the church clock ringing out at 1pm And the happiness of amassed children in the playground, Reminds me of innocence, and that it's lunchtime; All the shops display quaint little closed signs, No tea, The only thing I'm consuming today is the ambiance. The sun tried to break through the clouds earlier, As I approached the Dovecote, No white flash of wings today though, no coo, But I did see two wood pigeons Courting on the telephone wire,  (They don...

And there is snow There is snow That falls like feathers  Swan lake, silently dessicating, soft, Icing sugar sweet atop iced cake rooftops. And there is snow That falls like crystalline spherical shards Hard, as dense as a flock of starlings, Horizontal hail, on the highway to hell. And somewhere in between there is snow That falls inconspicuously as iced rain Slush puppies in lane 3 Headlights south-bounding towards you in lane 1. A Wensley 4.01.2025

  A Darragh Winter When walking these woods in Winter Amidst the uprooted ancients And torn limbs of Darragh, Amidst your bodies, a warzone, Your white bark,  Reminiscent of snow, In the absence of a seasonal hoar frost, Refracts the setting sun Bright unto mine eyes, Such that your leafless,  Lifeless bare branches, Shout out for peace against those Death-shrouded in their soft green blankets Of moss and ivy on the woodland floor, Appearing to me like standard-bearers On the front-line of change; White flags standing tall Against a relentless wind. A Wensley 3.01.2025