A delightful week in Pembrokeshire, with wonderful light and views, helped slow me down a little more. Was it the unique ‘summerhouse’ base with its eclectic library of fascinating, beautiful books: The Spell of the Sensuous; Cabin Porn; The Holy Wells of Wales; – (there is indeed an anicent Holy Well on site); Stanza Stones, The Pebbles on the Beach (an updated edition of a book I treasures as a youngster), were all devoured in part, or whole, in ‘down-time’. A mere fraction of the options available for us to sample from Mike and Aradhana’s diverse options on any number of subjects.

Or was it the sea air, or the warmth and light from the expansive windows facing south, with a wide desk placed in front?

And a comfy swivel chair to simply sit and stare.

Or the weather for special walks every day?

Or the treat of a fresh crab sandwich overlooking Lower Fishguard harbour?

We both felt reinvigorated after the hot summer, and I had much fun catching up on a rare burst of more intense, creative writing.

(I consciously left my trusty Lumix behind, so all the holiday photos are taken, reluctantly, by switching on my phone and trying to work out how to use it).

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Carn Ingli 

Best not to speak, just find some rocky seat

To let the mountain sound; and silent landscape heat.

Absorb the colours: near, high, far; the hues

Which need no names, save sterile greens;

Distant, laboured roofs and walls, and timeless views.

 

This is a place for those that fly,

Or minds that follow, slow.

Angels, for sure, will grace this place

And ghosts of those who tilled and toiled harsh slopes, below.

Sun’s late September warmth today fuels others’ flight.

 

Ladybirds explode, a loveliness from space, all whirring, bright.

Above light rocky crags with ancient lichened scripts

Late butterflies were walled, quick-jinked and sparred,

Flat-fused on close-cropped turf – tubed life slow-pumped.

And litter? Strewn feathers, gull-plucked white.

 

Clues: others rule this ancient, sacred, quiet place

Where earth meets sky, where life meets death, re-pulses, flies.

Climb down through tabled heather-gorse, slow-paced.

All whinberries long gone. Rejoin the world,

Switched off, tuned in. Switch on?

29/09/2026

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Enoch’s stones

So little known, for sure, of Enoch’s stones.

Named for that ancient man of God? Who knows?

 

Mere molehill on high mountain’s brow. Take time

To track meandering trails which trace its ancient spine.

 

Plutonic Ordovician birth surmised,

The summit’s boulders, myth-hunt huge, survive.

 

Since all below was split and scoured and milled,

Sluiced out to sea, for pebble seekers’ thrills.

 

Take time to find those laddered lines, deep-cut

In Enoch’s gritty, weathered face.

 

Who came here, when and why this human trace?

For sharpening tools? Or rules for those who passed this place,

 

Like Enoch, long departed from our earthly space.

Or deeply gouged: a calendar for moon and season’s chase?

 

Or early practice strokes by Irish scribes?

Whose wandering tribes worked Ogham megaliths.

 

Or even fissured marks of natural force:

Of sun, rain, wind and frost’s harsh splitting course.

 

This dolerite conundrum claims no tolls

Shared free, with brooding mares, and pie-bald foals.

 

04/10/2026

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Vanessa atalanta

 

Picked from glossy page, words sold your wares,

Bare-rooted. Years have come and gone, you’ve thrived.

Frau Dagmar’s hips rich autumn blood-jugged fare.

Pink blowsy bloomed, once bumble-buzzed, alive.

 

Late season treat, red admiral is glued

To dulling claret globe. Her hidden probe

Is buried deep in softening flesh,

Life’s unseen juices ebbed and flowed.

 

Untroubled by the strengthening gusts,

Untroubled by her ancient name:

Swift’s lover’s ancient split name tryst

And virgin huntress bear-nursed fame.

 

I moved too close, the bond was snapped

And in an instant, she was gone.

Frau Dagmar’s hip-skin barely flushed.

And admirably, red, your line flows on.

 

28/09/2026

 

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Hunting Hare

Chance? Or bought with sweat-soaked years.

Gold shredded tight-furled cat’s-ears sway, as if scaled shrouds.

While orchids stand, erect, pink-spotted, bold and proud.

 

Me? I’m hunting hare.

 

Stiffening breeze, dusk’s gloom gifts me surprise

Mirage or movement? Stem shafts splinter

Strange bewitching ears, flex swiftly, rise.

 

Sapir-Whorf-words strain your name – ‘Brown hare’.

Called for coursing, killing, snaring, jugging.

How so? Face amber eyes, scan black-tipped ears.

 

In motion watch them twist, rotate, flop, fall.

Fear-fuelled, alert. Her mouth grinds split-lip fare.

Not nibbled leaves, but stems stripped bare.

 

You are a global goddess, hare, or God.

Myth-marveled lamb of Melangell

In forms you lie, your stealth protects.

 

Such treasured moments shared, rare priceless trade.

Moon-gazing pair or rusting stare, no match.

Hare hunting, wealthy words won’t fade.

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Conjunctions

What drew me there, then?

To Callum’s storm-gouged bend, as afternoon began.

You had no choice, dried pond no longer place

To sink your eggs at pace, secure your race

Before your lives were done.

 

Enthralled, as light played on still-trickling stream,

Where eddies often swirl, massed skaters teemed,

Your head-grasped pairs, balletic, moved as one

Your conjoined bodies flexed – his red, hers gold,

Rose-fell, slam-dunked; the tensioned surface holed.

 

What drew you there, then?

To stream-sourced stones beside the cottage door, as afternoon began.

Five weeks had passed, the rains returned, the pond refreshed.

Did hotter cobbles lure you near?

From ancient stones, some unseen sign shine clear?

 

He surely led his head-grasped bride

She’d surely locked for chest-plugged ride

In crumpled wheel they lay, exposed

He gently pumped, cleaned swivelling eyes, she clasped her lover tight,

Yet in an instant both took fright.

 

Beyond the wall, the marvel grew

For on the blue-stone slab, laid bare, caught

In flagrante, two dragon wheels, locked there.

Shrunk griffinflies, sprung from rock’s face,

Hewn shadows of their former race.

 

30/09/2026.

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Will I write about the seal pup lying on the gloriously diverse pebble beach at Aberbach, or the hike along the hidden Gwaun valley?

Or the sweeping beam of Strumble Head lighthouse, or the British spotted ‘leopard-spot’ pony we admired near Carn Enoch? Probably not; time moves on.

Back home to autumn chores.

The big tidy-up begins: bulb planting, plant propagation and a farewell to our remaining two flighty sheep and ram lambs, in our annual cull and flock re-think.

The year feels like it’s starting to wind down.

Where has it gone?