Month: June 2016

Kiftsgate Court

~ distilledvoice ~ 9 Comments

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From the brow
Of the wooded escarpment
Eyes are drawn
To the picture
In a vista’s reach
Into mists and the rolling plain.
And then a near rose
Beckons come close
To the petal’s crenellations
And breathes as sweetly
As the lover’s kiss,
Competes with all the faded distance
And offers the planted bed
Afire with flowers
And boughs drooping
Under the weight.
And then again the call
From between scots pine:
The wood
Creeping down the vale,
Hauling the mind away
To thoughts afar and blurring.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Girl In A Rose

~ distilledvoice ~ 2 Comments

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There was a girl
Who fell asleep in a rose.
For a pillow she took a purple petal
And the blanket too
Was soft as a princess’s cheek.
And her dreams were fragrant
And brought about the soundest sleep
As if upon a leaf
All that might be
Could really come to pass.
And when she wakes,
For she will wake refreshed,
She will sip upon a perfect sphere
Held within a purple
Rose petal glass.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Village

~ distilledvoice ~ 3 Comments

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Nestled in the deep pocket
Of the Cotswolds
Lies a village
That can only be known
Via old tracks, footpaths
And bridleways.

Some say it was lost,
Loosing its footing in time.
And some say it is found
Disregarding time’s
Bustling runaway.

But all who walk
The sleepy streets
Are touched by the woodsmoke air
And the cottage gardens’
Homely claim

On old walls
In which the roses scramble
And flowers beds billowing rich
Beside the flagstone path.
And time appears

To flow unending
From pastoral histories
And more simple years
Where one year spent
Yielded freely
In the spending of the next.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Metamorphosis

~ distilledvoice ~ 3 Comments

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I walk in to the garden
A man
In clothing and footsteps
And thought

And then as the banks
Of perennial leaf
Touch my check,
Reach to meet

My enquiring hand,
And as my eye,
Like foraging bee
Dips and inspects,

And my ears,
Drawn to perceive
The wood pigeons
Breathing symphonies.

And as my nose
Catches strands
Of scent upon the breeze,
I change

From the modern, disinterested man
To the lover
Of my brother the leaf
And my friends

The birds and insects,
Quick-winged under foliage
And shadow
And proud to own the branch

And scrump the flower heads.
And thus I become
The green thing,
Half man, half herb,

Wishing for the heady scents
Of earthen loam
And soil must
And coolness of the mother,

Where the flesh of my heart
Might be lain in a hollow
To absorb the deep nutrient
And feel the root of forever.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Dusk Honeysuckle

~ distilledvoice ~ 4 Comments

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To the dusk
Flowers put their moods
In scented wafts
On which the eyes might close,
Deferring to the only open sense
Of the tantalised nose,
In which such enrichment
Is found in sweet distillate
Of earth and loam:
The mind somehow
Washed in perfumed sherbet,
Cleaned by something
Made perfect,
Alerted to the essential element
Volatile under the mid summer moon.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016