THE PETITION

There is a church in Manchester known as ‘The Little Gem’. The exterior is unexceptional but the interior is elaborately decorated. Some years ago
we went to visit and whilst we were there a poem occurred;

The Te Deum ends and blends with the passed over prayers that hang in the air,
            Waiting acknowledgment.
    A shadow stirs, becomes a man, ponderous, slow
            Hesitant.
    His head a discarded maquette of rough clay,
            Meant for a hero.
       His clothes un-pressed, shiny with grease from solitary meals
            Infrequent.
    Shuffling forward on slippered feet, half blind,
            Knees bent.
He fumbles with parsnip fingers for a coin from his plastic purse,
            A present,
            And sets a candle by the font to lighten the darkness
                   She left behind.

                THE PETITION
                  by
                 Frank Bryce

THE WOOD

I don't often enter poetry competitions, I'm too retro I suppose and can't believe that tearing up prose into lines of various lengths without rhyme,  OK  or rhythm,  less OK and without a memorable poetic phrase is what I thought of as 'poetry'. Yes I am an old, tight fisted,cynical sod so I don't waste mi money on entry fees.However, when the BBC Wild Life magazine ran a competition for a nature poem with free entry I decided to enter and submitted the following which began as a poem about nature but became something different. No it didn't win but it did get a special recommendation, how about that? (what did you say Bryce about torn up prose and no rhyme?)

THE WOOD
by
FRANK BRYCE

The first time we were here the rain had stopped
leaving that sweet earthy smell that woodlands have when wet
and we scuffed our shoes through the leaves
and the fresh green shoots that told of the coming Spring.
And later we came back to see the bluebells
and you told me that their other name was Endymion non-scriptus
and I said that didn't seem very suitable
as Endymion was the setting sun in Greek mythology
and I'd never seen a blue setting sun
and you said I was too picky and to stop showing off
and just to look and enjoy,
and I teased you saying that non-scriptus was apt considering
and you said considering what
and I said how many poets had gone round the bend
trying to describe a sunset
and you pushed me into a patch of wild garlic
and when you tried to help me up I pulled you down
and you said to be careful
and so we just held each other
and that was a good time.
And we came again in Summer as you recovered
and I tried not to envy the blackbirds and the doves with their young
and even the insects flaunting their abundance
and we stayed until late not wanting to return to the empty flat
and in the twilight our favourite silver birch looked like a moonlit ghost
and I remembered the bluebells
and tried to distract you by telling you that the birch tree was Selene
and the moon-goddess was searching for her love Endymion
and he was no longer here
and you started to cry and I wished I'd kept quiet.
And now in Autumn the sun shines
and the trees parade their stylish new colours
and I hear someone say how beautiful the wood looks
and I nod, but without you
the fallen leaves only foreshadow the winter.