Walking the Sugarloaf on a January morning

by Cath Barton

On the upward our hearts pump,
Feet squelch in mud,
Muscles contract in effort and sweat. Seeing us tramp past,

Sheep pause in their chewing
Bemused, then resume. Above it all our vision clears.
We catch the flail of the wind

And the savour of the day. We have walked the circuit,
The moon gate,
Hearts’ ease.

Editor's note:  (to visit the Sugarloaf, click here)

Life, now

by Cath Barton

The twitches and trembles
of nameless fears
that pepper my days with anxiety
are relieved by simple things:
walking in the hills,
planting bulbs in the garden
and stroking your hair.

When I wake whimpering
from yet another bad dream
I feel your breath, the breath of now,
soothing me.
I realise that fighting
is not the way.
I must ride the wave of life.

Panther

by Cath Barton

Cat prowls in the savanna.
Her blue eyes glint and flash in the sun,
Her black coat gleams, as sleekly she slinks
After her prey that darts and jumps.

Who is the smarter?
Who will win?

Cat shakes the morning dew from her velvet paws.
Carefully she places each one between jewelled grass stalks.
Silence. A swoosh of air.
A slow trickle of sticky, sickly red warmth.

The prey had no chance.
Not a chance.
Not a chance.

In midday heat Cat lies lean and long...
Replete, asleep, her chest rising and falling,
As vultures flap down and tear fiercely
At suppurating remains of Cat’s repast.

Savanna life is hard,
bloody
and cruel.

Savanna life is sweet for the panther,
Queen of the rippling expanse of grassland.

Early August

by Cath Barton

The muggy days muddle me.
My mind and body drag
In sweaty discomfort.
Tomatoes droop their leaves,
Cats loll listlessly
And my skin prickles.

I stir, fetch water
From the butt
And revive the tomatoes.
The level is low,
Not enough
For many more waterings.

The swish of the traffic
Outside my window
Sounds like rain,
But we look for it in vain,
And away to the east
The harvested crops are dust.

Spun gold

by Cath Barton

All our minds
have fizzing corners,
synapses  spluttering,
casting out in faith
like spiders
spinning their invisible
connections.

Keep alert,
for there’s gold
in the web
of your memories,
and you could be caught
unawares
by its shine.

A garden in Wales

by Cath Barton

1
In this, the year of my becoming,
we have summer,
days and days of summer.

In the cool of early morn
the roses in the garden hold their breath
against the coming heat.
The stamens of the evening primrose flowers
tremble,
and I listen to the incipient buzz of the day.

A bird beats its wings,
frogs plop into the pond,
and a rose petal twirls
on an invisible thread.

Each tiny sound is amplified
and significant
in the garden
today.

2
I am not a constant gardener,
but, though forgetful, remiss
and often idle,
I thrill in growth when it comes,
and smile at the antics of the insects
who cut patterns in the leaves
of the roses,
and the young newts
who wriggle in the net
with which I fish fairy moss
from the pond.