Dreaming by winnie quinn all poems and artwork on this page ©winnie caw 2004
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detail from 'stu asleep' - pastel sketch by winnie caw June 1988

A selection of poems 1970 - 1975

Autumn 1971

Visions of Bluebells on a Spring Afternoon.

Itís the time of the year
when catkins are drooping from the trees
like dozing caterpillars suspended in mid-air;
When little buds appear on barren branches;
And every tiny primrose is a miracle.

The time when children,
forgetting their warm winter garb,
emerge from bleary-eyed houses
And sprint across damp meadows
towards the woods,
to gather bluebells.

There, amongst the gloomy shadows,
and last yearís rubbish,
A thousand dewy maidens stand, motionless;
Mourning in the pious silence,
As if willing themselves not to be picked.
Yet, by their drooping heads,
Admitting that it is inevitable.

Later,
nodding their heads at one another in the sunshine,
They decide that, perhaps,
it isnít so bad after all.

* * * * *

Autumn 1970

Serenity

A gust of wind, and all is whirling confusion.
A blinding torrent of frosted rain
and glistening nothingness.
A feeling that one is being shown something beautiful.
Yet only for a moment.

Snowflakes.
A silent army of aliens invading the earth;
Hitting the wet pavement
and melting into indifferent
Uniformity.

A blanket of serenity and silence
on a winterís afternoon;
Covering the dead earth
In a blissful cloak of peace.

Virgin snow.
Product of the gods.
Perhaps anxious to hide
their creation in a sudden fit of shame?

* * * * *

November 1972

Purple guilt

Bells, peeling outside my window,
Pull me back
To a time of
Sunday walks through country lanes;
Blackberry-stained fingers
Complimenting
Guilt-stained mouths.
Leafy mudded paths leading to
Lazy brooks
Revealing
Flashes of stickleback and red-throat.

Caught in a jam-jar?
Never the same.
Never again.

* * * * *

Easter 1971

Qui sait?                                

You are gazing
into a world where I have no place.
What are you thinking?
Who are you?
We are strangers.
To you, I do not exist.
Although I am willing you to look towards me
You do not know.

And I know that this is the closest
we will ever be.

How sad it is that such promise of bliss
can never even begin to exist.

And yet we are bound together;
For we both do not belong
to that loud world
of flashing colour
and music.

You do not dance;
You neither drink nor smoke this evening
as we meet and do not meet.
There is a barrier between us.
A barrier of time and of not-knowing.
A bond of boredom and of not-belonging.

And I am left with a feeling that it could have worked.

Who knows?

* * * * *

Autumn 1972

The Road

The Road is long
and flocked with travellers
going one way;
Starting with empty pockets and minds;
following the path, simply because
there is no other...

...At first.

Gathering wayside flowers and weeds;
Pricked and stung
With wounds that sometimes never heal.
A side turning appears...
Some turn off to rest
and never return;
Others glance in
And are not interested.

Soon
Snowdrops and crocuses
Daffodils and gardenias
Are to be seen no more.
The scent of roses
Lingers everywhere;
Passions die a little,
But the pace is just as fast.

Only when the travellers
Are stuffed with autumnís fruit
and weary
Does the wind of relaxation and tolerance
Blow across the road in strong gusts;
Sweeping some off their feet;
Forcing others into sheltered side-lanes
From which they never return.

The Road is long,
And no-one knows of
The tavern at the end;
Which is used as a rumour
To encourage the slow stragglers
And foot-weary.

Yes, the Road is long....

* * * * *

22nd October, 1973

The Dawn

Today, while the dawn bursts out in glorious fire;
And I am with my heartís desire;
The look that, in his eyes, I see
Sweeps all my former fears from me;
And I am left, all calm and bliss.
What satisfying strength is this!
The promise of another day
In peaceful union; to say
That, I am yours; and every care
is something which we both will share;
And how I wish this joy of mine,
this present love, will not decline.

* * * * *

6th February 1975

The tree

It stands alone out there;
Arms offered to the sky.
It doesnít know its raison díťtre
as all else passes by.

The countryfolk all know the tree
and rest beneath its shade.
Mute promise scratched in shady bark
remembers boy and maid.

The wheels of Time have cycled passed;
with War and Peace astride;
through Summer, Winter, Spring and Fall;
to leave no scars inside.

Iíve wandered through the fields of Fate
and been all I could be;
but should, perhaps, have been the tree;
and let all come to me.

* * * * *

Autumn 1974

Golden globe

The sun has gone
and fizzled out
in a dozy, cosy, red-brown sky.
From blinding orb
to sunken glow
in one slow swoop.
Taking regretful leave of absence;
but, showing in its ruddy wake,
Promise of a bright tomorrow.

* * * * *

Summer 1971

You look - but you do not see.
You try - but youíll never be.
I am - what I am is me.

It is - and will never change.
Life is - an eternal thing.
The end - means to start again.

* * * * *

Selection of Vol. I @  I Find My Way 1968 - 1976

Selection of Vol. III @  Bus Stops - Poems 1996 - 2002

Bluebells

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