Ilse Pedler – The Other Side of the Wall

Ilse Pedler
The Other Side of the Wall

Their olive trees are now outside the wall.
Their sheep graze on the other side of the wall.

They watch their land return to desert,
because their wells are on the other side of the wall.

Every day they queue at checkpoints
to get to their jobs on the other side of the wall.

Their children have nowhere to learn when their
schools are on the other side of the wall.

Do you stop looking into each other’s eyes
when all you see is a reflection of the wall?

Does food become bitter in your mouth when all
you can see from the cafe window is the wall?

Does part of your heart become stone
when every day you stare at the wall?

Tell the people who build walls, you see only one side,
when you are only allowed on one side of a wall.

Ilse Pedler – The Pull of Continents

Ilse Pedler
The Pull of Continents

The ‘arrow stork’ carried its piercing burden
for two thousand miles only to be shot by a different hunter.
African hardwood proving to early naturalists
that birds didn’t winter underwater
or transform into different species,
but when they felt the hunger
the pull of continents, made a compass of the stars,
opened their wings, and spiralled up thermals.

A billion Monarch butterflies crusting trees in layers
clustering in red and orange thousand-faceted chandeliers
oceans from home.

Salmon returning to their natal river
muscling up waterfalls lured by the smell of familiar
tasting home in turbulent water.

Buffalo,
        lemmings,
                caribou

and we too spreading across continents
shedding versions of ourselves
leaving our footprints in every unblemished place.

And when there is nowhere else–
still we go
in the backs of lorries
clinging to landing gear
rowing desperately with pieces of wood in leaking dinghies

taking journeys that for some become years
and for others
                    lifetimes.

Meryl Stratford – Directive

Meryl Stratford
Directive

          after Frost

In all the towns along the border,
you’ll find a xeroxed map of hell.
It comes with this warning: Don’t go!
After one day of walking, there’s no turning back.
Wear the right shoes. You cannot carry
enough water into this land of
heat and hostile vegetation,
plants armed with knives and swords,
the glittery eyes of coral snakes
following as you stumble past.
Beware the coyotes, those guides who only
have at heart your getting lost.
Whisper a prayer. Uncle Sam,
Uncle Sam, may I cross your border?
What was once a child’s game
is now a perilous journey, beyond
Tombstone and Phoenix
to the distant City of Angels.

Meryl Stratford – The Monarchs

Meryl Stratford
The Monarchs

         after Montale

have been fooled
by a lingering summer—
overstayed
their time in the north.
The milkweed they feed on
has bloomed and wilted.
If they don’t freeze,
they will starve.
Look—how they fly
into the wind,
how they fall, one by one,
into the waves
of the lake.
How can we not see
they are our sisters?

The earth reels
in a man-made fever,
and the fig trees
should be
asleep.

Judith Rawnsley – Touching Base

Judith Rawnsley
Touching Base

The day they eat the dog, Mama begs Chi:
Swim! Take your girlfriend. Time has run out.

Ten miles a day in the Pearl River roping
muscles, honing hopes, until the October

storm-clouded night they bind
themselves together and drop

into the mouth of Mirs Bay. Ahead
figures already swimming, swallowed

by cold, against the current, still afloat.
Death circles in the darkness. Waves snarl

like patrol dogs. Bullets bite. Fog obscures
those already starved, shot or drowned,

washed up on Shenzhen beaches,
TB-ridden, limbs bitten off by sharks.

With each stroke, Sea-Wing counts
the things they’re leaving—

elderly parents, siblings, college educations.
She chokes, feels a jerk on the rope—

three years’ pig farming, dead cousins,
public beatings, an official’s hand up her skirt.

Chi ploughs on towards a rich man’s floor to sweep,
a factory job, a document that says he belongs, pushes

past a bloated corpse, buoyed by the warmth
of Sea-Wing’s lantern heart.

They wake on a littered beach to see English
letters on a rusted Carnation can.

The frayed rope has become a wedding band;
Typhoon Dot their witness, the waves their guests.

Steve Abbott – Transplant

Steve Abbott
Transplant

It’s warmer where she’s come from.
Here, autumn’s leaves describe
a temporary loss, something
replaceable in the next cycle of sun.
Unlike the even-toned story she told
of men in street clothes forcing the door,
beating her father into a dark sedan.

My friend spades a neat circle around
the sprout, deep cuts clear of root ball
and its tortured push through Ohio clay.
She’s already dug a new hole, bowl
extra-wide to keep the transplant from
drowning in a place like the impermeable
cup it came from. She works without gloves.
Dirt inks her fingernails. A worm drops
from her hands like a forgotten scar
into a patch of earth scabbed with graves.

The postman arrives, notes the change
in weather on his way to the mailbox,
drops a bundle of letters with unfamiliar
stamps whispering through the slot.
Nothing survives dangling in air,
unrooted, she says. Her fingers pack
new soil with peat, press the plant
among what already thrives. She says,
Everything needs a place to stand.

Donna J. Gelagotis Lee – When the tourists came,

Donna J. Gelagotis Lee
When the tourists came,

few noticed me roaming the village streets,
so much like a tourist I might have been one.

But my eyes were like sea-stones,
and my legs didn’t mind the climb up

the cobblestone road. The way I greeted neighbors
was neighborly, not distant with a passport

in my mouth. Greek tumbled out
and made them pause. The women thought

they detected something in my dress, my walk,
my long skirt covering the ground with a sweep.

But they had things to do,
and the sun was coming over the village.

John Laue – Migrating Pelicans, Seacliff Beach, Aptos, California

John Laue
Migrating Pelicans, Seacliff Beach, Aptos, California

John Laue writes: ‘My photographic philosophy is to take my Cannon 3100 camera with me wherever I go. When I spot interesting subjects, I click on them, even taking some from moving cars and planes. This particular photo is from a group I took of airborne, pelican V-lines over Seacliff Beach, located only a few miles from my home in La Selva Beach, California, USA.’

John Laue, Migrating Pelicans, Seacliff Beach, Aptos, California, photograph, 2020

Bob Ward – Plants on the Move

Bob Ward
Plants on the Move

Plants are good at occupying new ground. Like couch grass they can spread long roots below the surface before poking up to start fresh leaves. Or as thistledown they float off on a breeze to settle at a distance. Other plants produce burrs that cling to the coats of passing animals, hitching a ride. Gorse flowers give way to seedpods that in sunshine will burst, scattering the contents across the area.

       However, since the ages of European maritime exploration, humans have criss-crossed the world, taking plants with them. The modern garden is truly multicultural. I know a couple, devoted botanists, who went to Romania for a holiday walking through upland flower meadows. At the end of each day, they found their socks covered with seeds. They carefully picked these off, took them home and planted them in a wooden tub. Now they are pleased to display what they call their ‘Romanian sock garden’.

      All along the east coast of England, in early spring, a plant that dominates the roadside verges is an umbellifer called alexanders, or sometimes ‘the parsley of Alexandria’. It is said to have been introduced by the Romans during their occupation, because they liked it as a salad. Further inland it becomes relatively scarce, though in the Middle Ages monks would cultivate it in their herb gardens. By mid-summer the alexanders lose their leaves, leaving dry brown stems crowned by an array of black seeds with the appearance of tiny sculptures made from coal.

Bob Ward, ‘Alexanders’ in a Field, photograph, 2024

Bob Ward, Closeup, ‘Alexaders’ in Seed, photograph, 2024

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       Trees also have been transported across frontiers. Sycamores, for example, were brought into Britain through the 18th C., an era when wealthy people took to landscaping their estates. Since then, the majestic tree has become widespread. In Wales there is a custom whereby a young man prepares to go courting by carving a wooden ‘love-spoon’ to present to his lady. The light-coloured workable sycamore wood is often chosen for this purpose.

Bob Ward, Pathway Sycamore, photograph, 2024

       A notable sycamore tree still stands in the Dorset village of Tolpuddle. Beneath its branches in 1834, six, hard-pressed farm labourers formed a union in protest against their working conditions. Officialdom, fearing widespread unrest, over-reacted by sentencing the men to transportation for seven years to a penal colony in Australia. They became known as the ‘Tolpuddle Martyrs’. Fortunately, there was a public outcry and after two years the men were pardoned and granted a passage home.

       Only this year another sycamore was the centre of a news story. At the time of the Roman occupation of Britain, the emperor Hadrian caused a great defensive wall to be built that stretched across the north of England to keep out the marauding Scots. It remains as an archaeological wonder. Running along mountain ridges at one point it dips as it crosses a bare-sided valley. It so happened that a sycamore grew in the dip, resulting in a striking skyline that was widely appreciated and much photographed. Nevertheless, for obscure reasons two men chose to fell the tree without consulting the National Trust owners of the site. Again, the public reacted with horror. There are plans to grow another tree to replace it, if possible. The offenders await trial.    AQ

Bob Ward – The Swallows

Bob Ward
The Swallows

Widely welcomed as summer visitors, European swallows fly off to Africa during our winters, only to return the next year. An ornithologist friend once told me that one spring in Algeria he had seen swallows collapsed in heaps upon the ground near an oasis. They were exhausted at the end of their demanding flight across the Sahara desert. Before long they recovered enough to resume their journey north.

Bob Ward, Swallows on a Wire, photograph, 2023

          I used to live in a house high up on the side of a valley. Each April swallows would arrive to occupy a ledge inside our garage, left open on purpose to receive them. We never put the car away lest next door’s cat stationed itself on the top to harass the birds. We regarded the swallows as our special guests for over a decade, until one year they failed to settle and we never saw them there again. How we missed them!

Bob Ward, Which Way is South?, photograph, 2023

          In the same town, a road squeezed under a Victorian railway bridge. Swallows chose to nest regularly on the girders upholding the railway, despite the passing traffic. Sadly, they are no longer seen at the site. AQ