Geodiversity Poetry and Prose

Breeding season, 38 days and the moons panopticon, dreams move from room 

To room, birth to flight. 

Does the white tailed eagles 

Final dream before releasing 

Offspring Catch fire 

In the fire crowded sky. Eyes 

Like lighthouses. Who will 

Hear the light, signature for hunting rites as eyes are 

Reflected in lightning and 

The sea. Missing moons. 

Tidal ministry. Positions of 

Mothers offsprings first kill, 

Distil a panopticon. Flights 

Fixed in time. Bird climbing 

Winds towards nature’s 

Exclusive rooms. Is mother 

Of time fed with dreams as 

She whispers words of migration 

Time erodes memories seams, 

Waves against cliffs. Tide moves 

Out, prayerless hands. Unmapped 

Migration. Lightning is like 

A lost feather from mother 

Of times cosmic wing. 

An imperious bird ghosts 

It’s prey. Imperceptible pendulum 

Of Scottish rock, clear quartz, wings shadow 

Falls across a loch, is the waters 

Heart reflected in the eyes of 

The bird and does it pass through 

Dreams with wings 

In silhouette. Eagle, imperial, 

Emerges from the light 

Of nature’s eyes. Broad wings, 

Hooked bill, wedge shaped tail 

I struggle to read, write but sign 

My name on lightning with 

A dream after following the condors 

Flight. Winds incarnate my horse 

As he sleeps near the fire, we 

Passed flaming Indian reservations 

Whose fire didn’t reach and trespass 

On newly laid train tracks. Blacksmiths 

Hammering myths on times anvil. 

The red sky reflects wound from 

Civil war, photographs 

Cannot capture sound of moon 

Resting on devils tongue, where 

Are they hung, pictures of those 

Young and dead, allure of monotony, 

Diet of beef, cattle trail run 

Across states, five dreams within 

A dream, empty barrels of a gun, 

Bullets call from the vast spaces 

Of the plains. Night winds 

And those in dreams never meet, 

Unmarked graves from 

The war will never be found 

By kin. When will my hands 

Rise from the river of time 

With mirror and final drop of blood, 

Last rains fall of definitive west 

Onto wings of sleeping bird 

Who will wake for first kill, who 

Will rise from mirror of 

History with quill dipped in Indian blood, 

Sound of blood breaking glass. 

Horse takes drink from midnight 

Stream, deaths bullet disguised 

As a dream, ghosts of dreams pass, will condor 

Hover as I am laid in earth, 

Last rain to fall on eyes of cowboy. 

Did believers rehearse scenes from a future dream, tears timed ready to stream 

With light from the equinox. Did the deceased dream about clouds of 

Bone, with the hands of the wind and those of spirits  

Cradling the moon  

as the dead were 

Buried in La Hougue Bie, last fingerprints  

Of flesh, sky like a coffin. Works of 

Pottery perfected with the moon’s 

Synchronicity, manifestation of 

Form, seat for the soul, winds  

Pray with la Hougue Bie between 

Their palms to instruct lightning  

To strike without sound, between 

Fingertips, the span of 

A life, solstice and equinox. 

Seance with thunder for  

Those who heard lightning  

In their last dream. 

over rock and sand tide seeps and surges

meanders where

cliffs and beaches

cluster our edges

foundations are forged

slipways and walls

our granite boundaries

braced by bedrock

biodiversity blooms

on our soil of ancestry

farming fields

we harvest

our heritage of fertility

piers and dolmens

castles and forts

shape our island identity

geodiversity

makes its mark

and preserves our past

sustainability

and conservation

is our future innovation

from rotchi to côtil – la tèrr’rie d’Jèrri

La Cotte, a cave in name, though not in form,

a fissure, splitting cliffs above the bay,

those granite sentinels, through every storm

have stood, great guardians, here to this day.

Within the ravine, evidence, concealed,

our time-capsule, an ancient age-old trace

of eons past, now tangibly revealed

in sediments laid down within this space.

Relics of first people who tracked prey,

Neanderthal hunters who sheltered here

are layered in deposits. Finds convey

a sense of distant lives within this sphere.

Their history, now ours to understand.

Corporeal, ghosts rise from this headland.

Sea levels rose and fell, our coast was changed.

The island wed with France by spreading plain,

where those who sought food roamed and large herds ranged,

where mammoths lumbered long on this terrain.

Jersey, a rocky outcrop then stood high

above the tundra, anchored in times flow,

while fragments of all those who had passed by

fell as detritus on the dirt below.

Millennia rolled, our realm’s Prince came to see

flint-fashioned tools, which he held in his hands,

as archaeologists, our history

painstakingly extracted from soil bands.

These shelves of earth have stored our secret past,

their stories, now our legacy to last.

Charred remnants showed our forebears harnessed fire,

showed ingenuity in every part

of crafting items that they might require

from skins, sinews and bones with practiced art.

From hides, their clothes and covering were made,

with coarse, twisted horsehair they were sewn tight,

and fat-fuelled lamps gave light where they had stayed,

fending off the cold and fears of night.

Their diets rich in meat, findings revealed

lives of pursuit and gathering with skill.

In La Cotte’s depth, the secrets now unsealed

bear witness to persistence, strength and will.

This site of international acclaim,

our distinctive, unique timeline can proclaim.

Inaccessible, our past once slept,

Murmuring inside the silent stone.

Through shards of years, a record has been kept

of ways of life that time has overthrown.

Its revelations whisper tales untold,

of cultures that eventually would fall.

In every piece, its mysteries unfold,

additions to our heritage. The call

to conserve them, not for us alone

but for the future’s keen and eager eyes,

were those seeds of our ancestors once sown.

A bridge from then to now is seen to rise,

spanning from a far antiquity

through us, to our future identity.

Jersey at first glance has the appearance of a stable society which has made the most of its natural advantages. It has kept its beautiful coastline mainly untouched by ugly developments, most – though not all – of its inhabitants enjoy a decent standard of living or receive help from Social Security when they are struggling, and I have noticed none of the racial prejudice that used to be common thirty years ago. Strangers often greet you when you go for a walk – a sign of a stable, friendly society. 

Farms still seem to be functioning, thanks to the Jersey cow and the Milk Marketing Board, though their use of pesticides has leaked into the water supply and harmed wild life. The wealth of the island has switched from tourism to finance, which has affected the hotel trade, while the civil service has grown in numbers with every attempt to reduce it.  Another social change has been the rise in house prices and buy to let apartments offering poor standards of accommodation at extortionate rents. Jersey – being a small island – has always suffered from offering a narrow range of career choices. In this case, the rewards of the finance industry suck talents away other forms of employment.  

But these factors do not account for the apparent rise in mental distress placing many people in social care without many signs of positive outcomes. 

How do we deal with mental illness? The most obvious factor is the role of smart phones and the social media that make a fortune from exploiting human misery. But I think our care system could sometimes take a more active approach than drugs and sympathy. The more young people, especially, can be involved in active pursuits like sport, or dancing, gardening, painting and separated from their smart phones, the better chance they have of finding a role and gaining a sense of achievement. Thus, I suggest that schoolteachers should be freed from their tiresome admin duties and at least an hour of the daily curriculum should be devoted to active outdoor pursuits where the students can be involved in activities that give them that important feeling of self-worth.    

At this point, you may well ask what all this has to do with preserving the past and sustaining the future. Clearly there are some aspects of the past that we would not want to sustain like Jersey’s involvement in the slave trade or the demeaning treatment of poor Breton farmworkers. But in terms of sustaining the future, I think we should take a look at  those large cars dominating the roads and the private jets housed near the airport and ask ourselves how serious we are about fighting the threat of global warming. And finally we might take an inward look at ourselves. Are we really up for the challenge that Jersey people suffered in two world wars. Challenge is an essential part of life – sympathy has a place of course, but some young people especially need a challenge to find an activity that they are good at and that gives them a feeling of self-worth. This is an area where I feel that the schools and some parts of the care service should place more emphasis.  

L’èrsîn êclyiche sus l’grannit; dans l’chèrvé,

les couoches sont pliées d’auve l’attaque du rotchi.

Y’a d’mauvaises dêlaches dans la vie en mé;

y’a des calmioles en mé duthant ma vie.

Y’a ieu des batâles, pis y’a r’ieu du bé;

y’a hardi d’dêssa ès côtes dé man d’si.

L’av’nîn capèle, appelle la sauvaginne.

Jé n’sai pon où’est qu’i’ sont, les greunes d’l’histouaithe

nyées souos l’pâssé, mais l’présent y moulinne.

Les mathes dé mes mémouaithes n’assiqu’thont dgéthe

quandi qu’ma langue dêssalée ès salinnes,

ès falaises en fiellets est pouor dêliéthe

l’êcadîn d’mes crianches, les rocques d’èrtas,

la rêv’thie d’gravi, l’grînglot souos mes pids,

l’êboulement d’mes souv’nîns. L’s atchus tchaient bas

des crêtes. Si m’n av’nîn s’adonne galichi

en galaxies d’êtailes, man tchoeu tchèrra,

êtrav’lé dans l’pur pliaîsi sus l’grannit.

Surf strafes the granite; while in my mind’s eye

the strata fold with rock-stitched enmity

the turbulence in my sea flowing by

and in my life, sometimes becalmed at sea,

there have been battles between wet and dry:

my coastal ribs desire to be free.

The future breaches; it calls, bedrock comes.

I don’t know where our history finds its ground

drowned underneath the past while twiddling thumbs

of present. Memory stretches, dries around

in saltpans; my tongue unleashed in doldrums

in fractured cliffs; a broken spell resounds

in in-filled beliefs and rocks that rebut

the dreamy gravel, crunch beneath my feet

eroding memories, the crests that jut

fall down and if my future lies as setts

in cobbled constellations, my heart’s shut

swooning in pure pleasure on the granite.

To the shift

of the sea

and the echo

of oystercatchers,

through a field

of shoots nudging

the dust of the soil,

where the heat

of the sun

sears the shell

of the cave,

where shadows

of ferns unfurl

and serrated

spears of nettles

gather the gaps,

where brambles

penetrate the dusk

of the grave,

where pebbles bubble

from the hearts

of seven capstones:

nodules like vowels

from the depths

of the rock

with 5,000 years

of tales

untold.

The harvest moon 

throws glints of light 

upon the rippling wet surface 

kissing the cove 

with moist lips, licking 

and tasting the saltiness  

The recurrent tide 

undresses daily 

revealing rock pools rich with life 

unimaginable beauty 

known mainly by 

elegant long legged models  

The cascading waterfall 

exudes bright azure streaks 

blended with snowy bubbles 

forming a picture perfect 

jigsaw scene, uncannily real 

tremendously archaic 

This priceless diamond 

worn like a rare brooch 

on a designer jacket 

attracts virgin life 

embraces current visitants 

hugs habitual visitors   

This northwest gem 

home to flaxen sands 

and intriguing sea caves 

holds a lifetime of memories 

as occurring evolution continues 

casting her imposing magic 

A low, low tide.  

We follow the stream from the sea wall down the beach, looking for signs of oozy mud. 

When we reach the sea, I slip into the shallows as the tide is turning and water begins to flood the narrow gullies.  

I drift with the current, my body brushed by long strands of dark weed. 

The air is soft and still, but I can hear the muffled sound of waves breaking on the sharp reef further out. 

My skin trembles with anticipation as I breathe in a deep, full breath of fresh, salty air,  

feeling excitement for what awaits across the smooth, wet, well-rounded pebbles, glistening like precious gemstones, a gift from the early high tide and dewy autumn morning air. 

Today, a stillness softly lingers across the Bay for a moment before the Sky begins to shyly shows its’ tell that any onlooker with a weather’s eye on the horizon can read. 

Movement at the old granite Tower atop the crumbly wall – made of pudding stone I think – painted proudly red and white, draws my gaze southwards,  

away from the surroundings of the little cove.  

I spot fellow early birds peaking over the roof, waiting. 

A glow rises, light yellow like butter, riching in colour into an egg yolk orange, 

I’ll have to have a pit stop on the journey home across the Island.  

Now,  

an idea takes hold. Yes, breakfast at Hungry Man, if there’s time.  

Laughter meets my ear, over the gentle tingling of the moored boats, friends – they’ve arrived just in time. 

In a dash, we’re off!  

Racing like children whilst quietly cursing,  

layers off, toes stubbed bracing the cold with choruses of  

“quick”  

“hurry, or we’ll miss…”  

“…towel, leave them on the Slip” echo back over the rocky headland, 

striding with purpose into the shallows, 

then deeper despite tickling vraic and shared shock at a tingling chill to the Sea, this morning. 

Thirty strokes and a happy medium is met,  

a sense of calm, hope, as we all turn and see the big ball of fire peek out from the horizon, 

Sun rays pour, glittering shimmer onto the Sea surface,  

and up, up, across a clear backdrop, drizzled with pink-kissed clouds,  

promise of a brilliant blue by midday on the breeze. 

Sun-up, we all smile. Our special start to a good day. 

Recycling is my greatest passion 

It’s a lifestyle choice, not just a fashion 

I’m a fiend for saving odds and ends 

Cans and bottles my new best friends 

I’ve colour-coded bins and colour-coded bags 

A zen chart on my kitchen wall helps me file my rags 

The better bits could make a quilt if I only had the time 

To chuck them all away should surely be a crime? 

Empty plastic bottles are always promptly washed 

Then placed underfoot and very firmly squashed 

Cardboard is folded, torn and compressed 

It’s tremendous therapy for the clinically depressed 

Water from the bath is used to wash the pets 

They’re really none the wiser when I take them down the vets 

And, of course, when rationing starts in summer’s barmy weather 

It makes more sense for all of us to have a wash together 

I’ve set aside a special room to store the metal scraps 

There’s tin foil, iron girders and stainless steel taps 

If I wasn’t hording frantically I’d have a chance to sort it 

As the magnetic field created is tilting our Earth’s orbit 

On the lawn where I once had a whirly line 

I’ve now installed a massive whirling turbine 

From an old plastic sofa I watch it spin for hours 

It’s so much prettier than those boring static flowers 

Unfortunately it hasn’t been all plain sailing 

Once in motion it starts a ghostly wailing 

But to cancel out the noise pollution   

Candle wax ear-plugs have been a thrifty solution 

I’ve now discouraged people from visiting me at nights 

After nude protesters stealthily removed our streetlights 

But Naked Green Warriors have a duty to be heard 

And when saving the planet they will not be deterred 

So you can see I’m mad about recycling stuff 

I won’t even draw the line at my own navel fluff 

Though rather coarse, it found it ideal 

For weaving the cover of my steering wheel  

Despite the amount of energy I’m saving 

And the fact my friends think I’m raving 

Though I know that most things could be banned 

And concrete revert to arable land 

I’m so worn out I just can’t walk too far 

So there’s absolutely no chance I’m giving up that car! 

Bound by land and sea 

Often together sometimes apart 

Rugged magnificence sweeping vistas 

Fertile, rich and green 

The rock where we stand 

Sea is our siren, serene yet harsh 

Offers its bounty and draws us away 

Peopled before we were named 

History and culture thread our past 

Wace and Falle, poet and chronicler 

Enrich us with prose 

Writers, musicians and artists still  

We are not French nor English 

Breton and Norman from time past 

Others invited and welcomed  

But not all 

The language is ours 

Don’t call it patois 

We are Jersey 

Land, sea and people 

We are the inheritors, guardians and protectors 

We are different and the same 

Jersey, our home when here or away. 

Nothing usually worried Robin. He was a happy boy who couldn’t wait to start school. But that morning he was cross. He was trying to get his mother’s attention, to ask her what clouds were made of. But she was talking on the phone and had told him to leave her alone and go and play. The clock said 11 o’clock. So, with his angriest face on and arms crossed he marched out into the garden. He stamped his foot on the newly mown grass lawn. He rattled the gate, the gate which led to the woods. His mother had walked with him in the woods a few times but he was told never to go there alone. He lifted the latch and pushed through. 

He saw a path which led through the long grass, he walked along it. He saw trees ahead, he walked towards them. It was quiet, just a blackbird singing and his sandals rustling in the grass. He saw a little green man, no taller than his knee. Robin crouched down to look at the green man. The green man looked at Robin. “Hello, little green man,” said Robin.
“Oh, a young man. You startled me. Who are you?” He spoke in a strange, high voice.
Robin was pleased. He’d never been called a young man before. “I’m Robin,” he said. “Do you live here?”
“Yes of course. I’ve always lived here. Now what do you want?”
“Oh nothing, I’m just looking around,” said Robin.
“Looking around? Looking around? What for?”
“I don’t know really. I think I’d like to know about the woods. Are there more of you?”
“Well come along then. You seem a sensible boy. Let me show you around.” 

The little green man led the way. First of all he introduced Robin to the bluebell. “Good morning Bluebell. This is my friend Robin. He’s looking around.”
“Good morning Robin, nice to meet you,” said the bluebell.
“Nice to meet you too, Bluebell,” said Robin.
Next came the primrose, then the honeysuckle. Each was so pretty and polite. The sorrel, even the humble bracken. All had their place in the woods, Robin was entranced and couldn’t wait to see more. 

The green man pointed out the woodland birds too – the robin, the nuthatch, the little wren. They were busier than the plants and flowers – flying about, resting a moment before moving on. But each greeted Robin happily as they went about their day. 

At last the little green man stopped and said, “You’ve quite worn me out young man. Let’s sit awhile and talk.” And so they did. Robin was full of questions and the little green man did his best to answer. “One last question Robin then it’s time you went home.”
Robin thought. He mustn’t waste his last question. “You all seem so happy here but are you ever sad?”
The little green man said, “Yes we are happy. We all get along, we help one another, even the trees talk to each other, did you know that? But we are sad sometimes that people take no notice of us. We are part of your world but we often feel neglected, even mistreated. Some day maybe we’ll all be swept away by bulldozers and be replaced by an office block. Please, when you leave us, never forget today and the new friends you met.” 

And with that, Robin was back in the garden. He ran indoors excitedly to tell his mother of his adventures. But she was still chatting on the phone. The clock still said 11 o’clock. 

Many years later at the Global Climate Convention in Geneva, Sir Robin Courtnay, the Chairman, concluded his speech. “Ladies and Gentlemen, time is short. You have all heard fine words this week. You’ve been shown diagrams, figures, statistics. Yet after all our hugely expensive conventions, after hearing from the world’s top climatologists and scientists we are today on the edge of destruction. Yet I fear that you’ll all return to your countries and no action will be taken. I have no illusions. But you can each do one thing for me when you return home, each of you. Push open the gate that leads to the woods, spend time there, talk to the birds, plants and trees, while they remain. Acknowledge what we have done, are doing, to those with whom we share the world, the very world we have destroyed.” 

This coast is a shoulder of rock  

risen from the oceanic crust. 

My feet feel the shift of shingle, 

in my hand is an ocean-tossed pebble 

worn down by weather and tide. 

I grapple with the backbone of Jersey in eons — 

measure the era of volcanic eruption and mineral-rich granite  

against life forms that have come and gone, 

and the pinprick of human time — dolmens, castles,  

churches and homes, foods grown in soil,  

materials to make phones, toothpaste, and paint. 

My heritage is community, diversity and belonging. 

Potato fields and Jersey cattle, old ways and new ideas. 

I wonder at our influence on the ever-changing  

nature of Earth, a feeling of dutiful love  

to the bedrock of our island,  

its history and future. 

Rocks are solid, the base of everything. 

In stones and trees, the past lives on, 

Reminding us of days long gone, 

A tapestry entwined with love and care, 

A fragile legacy, so bold and rare. 

Amid crumbling walls and fading art, 

Echoes of wisdom, touching the heart, 

Stories told by lands and skies, 

Reminiscing of where true meaning lies. 

Conserving the past, is to light the way, 

For futures that are built on yesterday. 

Honouring roots, yet striving for more, 

Is how one walks through tomorrow’s door. 

Time continues, as always it must, 

With hopeful eyes and hearts of trust, 

To sustain the future, what must be learnt, 

Is to nurture the past and what it has earned. 

The past weaves nonchalantly into the new, 

With each step and choice we choose. 

Embracing the ancient close and dear, 

Shaping tomorrow without any fear. 

From coral reefs to granite cliffs, 

Earths great story never sleeps. 

Geodiversity is where we see,  

Topography in all of its noble glory. 

Quand j’tais janne, jé grattis mes sebs ; jellies n’fîtent pon pouor baînitchi. J’prannais des bâtons à chuchot et j’êprouvais l’s dêcoller, mais l’s baînis n’vendraitent pon. Et pis, à la pliaiche des baînis, j’ faîthais sèrvi des moûles et j’ happais des vèrtes crabes et en remplyis man boutchet et l’s èrgardis à grapilloner.

Jé m’litchais l’salîn d’ma pé et l’sablion d’mes des douthaient d’marmites et mé, j’grugais des coques et des vliques de ma manman. J’lî demandais dé baînitchi mais ou’ n’voulait pon l’faithe.

“I’sont cliutés!” J’lî dis, “Les vèrtes crabes les adorent!” Mais ou’ dit qu’i’n’taient pon cliutés et qu’i’ne l’s adoraient pon.

Ou’m’mouontrait des pliaies sus les rotchiers, ‘gaffs dé baînis’ qu’ouelle les nommait et ou’dîthait qu’i balivèrnaient

“L’s baînis viagent alentou chu rotchi et tréjous r’vont. ” Ou’ dit et j’dis qu’i’tait l’heuthe pouor d’la gliaiche.

En Jèrri, j’grapillonais par sus des rotchièrs et j’èrmèrtchais des grappe d’moûles. Jé drissais sus du vrai et jé faîthais tressauter les crabes tchi m’fleurichaient d’s armes. Jé chèrchais des pliaies au cliai d’leune et j’èrgardais les baînis à tater douochement lus dêtou dans la mathée.

J’bus du theé d’un thermos et d’mandis niaûmînnement à ma manman d’ baînitchi mais ou’ n’pouvait pon.

Jé t’en pâlais. “Siez-ieux,” J’dîthais “le siez-se qu baîni.” Et j’nos assiévêmes sus des rotchièrs et r’gardêmes l’ieau d’mé à touôngnoler entouor nouos crocs et tu frottais tes p’tits, cauds dés sus l’s flias et les nommaient ‘des pliaies d’histouaithes’ et t’ramembrais comment qu’les baînis viagent alentou des rotchièrs et tréjous r’vont et tu m’dîthais qu’i’tait l’heuthe pouor un chucot d’la gliaiche.

When I was young, I scraped my sebs; jellies weren’t meant for kicking rocks. I got lolly sticks and prised them, but the limpets wouldn’t move. I used mussels instead and caught crabs and filled my buckets and watched them scramble.

I licked salt from my skin and sand from marmite fingers and crunched on cockles and whelks from nan. I asked her to get the limpets, but she wouldn’t.

“They’re stuck!” I told her, “The crabs love ’em!” but she said they weren’t, and they didn’t.

She showed me scars on rocks, limpets’ gaffs she called them, and she said they told a story, “the limpets travel round that rock and always find home again,’ she said and I told her it was time for ice-cream.

In Jersey, I clambered over rocks and spied bunches of moûles. I slipped on seaweed and I startled crabs, who brandished weapons at me. I sought out the scars by moonlight, watched limpets feeling their way slowly in the tide.

I drank tea from a flask and foolishly asked nan to get the limpets, but she couldn’t.

I told you about them, “siez-ieux,” I said, “the limpet’s home.” And we sat on rotchiers and watched saltwater eddy round our crocs and you rubbed small, warm, chubby fingers over the dents and called them story scars and recalled how the baînis travel round rotchiers and always find siez-ieux again and told me it was time for a lolly.

‘Conserve, like marmalade or jam?’ I say 

‘No,’ you say, ‘to look after, to protect’ 

‘Sustain, to suffer a blow?’ I say 

‘No, not on my watch,’ you say, ‘not on my watch’ 

‘Conserve the apple,’ you say 

‘An apple a day, keeps the doctor away?’ 

‘Sustain the cidermakers, Black Butter nights, and Christmas brandy cream’ 

‘Hung by the chimney with care?’ 

‘Yes,’ you say, ‘with care’ 

Intangibles – tantalisingly out of reach, almost tangible 

Conserve the Rhyolite, Andesite, Ignimbrite, Quartz 

Sustain the landscape, the headlands, the valleys and dunes 

Conserve Sorel, Les Mielles, St Aubin, Gorey 

Sustain the wildlife, the shrew, the lizard and toad 

Conserve the bays, breakers, rockpools, tide 

Sustain our shoreline, the dolphin, tern and crab 

Tangibles – teetering on the brink, almost intangible 

Conserve energy, nuclear, wind, wave  

‘Come to sunny Jersey’ 

Sustain the panels, the tablets, transport and phones 

Smart things of the future 

Conserve the Neolithic, Bronze Age, Royalist, German 

‘And Our Dear Channel Islands’ 

Sustain the language, the velum, architecture and art 

Smart things of the past 

Conserve the French, British, Portuguese, Black African 

‘Welcome to Jersey’ 

Sustain industry, the farming, tourism and fishing 

Conserve the potatoes, tomatoes, cabbage, milk 

‘A glass and a half in everyone’ 

Sustain our girls, the wonders, loaves and bean crock 

‘Not bean crock,’ I say 

‘Yes, bean crock,’ you say, ‘even bean crock’ 

Conserve Jersey – a recipe to sustain an Island 

Granite, shale, sills, dykes, 

St Catherine, La Cotte, Egypt, Les Mielles, 

Moules, lobster, ormer, plaice – 

‘Conserve the place,’ I say 

‘Bottle its essence,’ you say 

‘Essential,’ I say, ‘to sustain us in winter’ 

Palaeolithic, Iron Age, Norman, Victorian, 

Italian, Irish, Polish, Thai, 

Cream, butter, cauliflower, wine – 

‘Maybe it is jam,’ you say 

Intangibles – tantalisingly out of reach, almost tangible 

Tangibles – teetering on the brink, almost intangible 

‘No, not on my watch,’ you say, ‘not on my watch’ 

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘with care’  

A cracked overhang of loom grey granite, 

Cathedral like in stature, God like in presence 

Any moment now a piece will fall, echoing down into the cragged tomb 

Adding to a long story we can’t stop in its telling 

You’ll find soon, that we are the stones in those dark places 

Now lit with our luminosity and songs of awareness 

bridging distant time and tides 

With shadows, come dig deeper you living hearts and palms 

For within us, the hourglass turns 

And all this wisdom buried in the soil and a liken flesh Will forever take us on. 

Deep tunnels we dig on on, sometimes blind sometimes with purpose, we dig rocks and relationships that form in us to the land we live upon, we grow with reciprocity, when we can notice the sharpness and the change and the subtly that only a secret love of the past and an anchor in the now would bring. I recognize this relationship, as not one to an inanimate object, Rocks, they breathe life in their own way, unseen with our searching eyes, yet very alive. You need only venture out on a calm day, the caves scattered around they show you your smallness, and teach you what the first temple on earth was – A cave, a sanctuary, a home. Our ancestors were born from the high cliffs and our survival is owed to the wombs of caverns, where the origin stories and songs were first sounded. We rent our earth mothers love from them, so let’s celebrate our shared silica, and dig deeper within ourselves & get to know a simpleness of living, we all once knew. 

We watch each turn of the tide. 

We listen from below, secreted by sea and sand. 

The winds whisper that a storm is coming. 

We are awaited. 

We are the hidden forest and we have travelled miles from our home. We are the roots of the birch and the alder. We are fragments of animals that once roamed the night. We are the broken twigs of the elm. We are insects embedded in a fossilised hoof print. We are 

petrified in a moment past. We are the dancing leaves of the ash, the rootlets of the hazel, and the nips of the pine tree’s tips. We are creatures, thousands of years old. We were there. We are here. We are submerged below the sea. We are every inch of the remaining forest. Just a fraction of the song. 

Now it is time. 

The winds howl. 

The isle’s stormbound. 

Yes. We are awaited. 

Our peaks raise their foreheads as it rushes away. Our peats lay fresh and naked. The sun reaches out her hand. The birch and the alder remember. 

We know that we do not have long. Our rootlets catch the air, a feeling of a life lived long ago. We are here again. See us. Will they remember that there is life beneath the surface? 

We do not have long. Only the time of a tide. We shall return below sea and sand until we are called for again. Until we are awaited. 

Stories, Earth’s bones, help make us what we are. 

In Jersey we are children of the granite. 

Proud that some helped build the Thames Embankment. 

Plenty of shale to go under the roads. 

Much of it pink to make attractive houses. 

And long ago there was a smattering of garnets and silver 

But no gold alas, although some was buried here 

Hidden by those fleeing the Romans, and found 

Centuries later by our trusty treasure hunters. 

When tourists come we proudly show our castles, 

Our forts and harbour walls, but underneath 

There lies something far older and more magical. 

Six thousand years ago the mound, Hougue Bie, was built 

And when its entrance was at last fully revealed 

We could confirm it was aligned to greet the Equinox. 

These islands are full of dolmens and standing stones 

Like clocks or astral calendars. 

And this is replicated throughout Europe, 

In France and Ireland, Scotland, England and indeed the world. 

What was this knowledge that our ancestors possessed 

And we have since forgotten? 

Conserve the past and who knows what the future will reveal.

We sunwise cross 

the Abbot’s plank 

as the Maytide turns 

on the Violet Bank 

a north-east wind 

wolf whistle drying 

varou voices 

a dead dry sighing 

rattling zips 

and shrouds of ships 

to founder on rocks 

and salt the lips. 

It blows bad dreams 

through holes in our seams and hornets hued 

and startled as sunbeams tumbling in on a tearing dance on a floor of air 

off the coast of France 

humming their hymns 

all hot with murder 

plans for planets 

paper girdered 

and mandible mashed 

til they make the shape a city makes 

for a naked ape. 

La Mancheland lies 

ahead of us 

alive in the sand 

and dangerous 

we rinse through rivulets leaving enclosures 

of saltwater 

rockpooled up 

by the aûgie 

and though we are looking for other loot 

I keep eyes out for 

a mammoth tooth: 

rugged and ridged 

the sole of a moonboot. 

Each galot I follow 

after is turned this 

way and that 

on a martian surface what once was forest and grassland prairie now sea and sand scraped 

crumble of caries 

the broken molars 

loess topped

like Green Island 

growing 

on top of La Motte. 

And here: a pool 

upon the strand 

a filled and muffled 

ear in the sand 

below it unknowing 

the little bone 

mouths at once both 

tongue and home 

cockles living 

a-live-a-live-oh 

in the intertidal 

danger zones. 

Chuchette, mah cocq 

in the stream and stutter 

happier here 

than in garlic butter 

they spume in a plume 

a telltale scatter 

black as a peppercorn, 

shale in shatter 

drinking their dregs 

like a dragnet team (draw-net) low water working 

where no moon gleams. 

We rake them over 

disturbing their sweet 

and washing dreams 

in the deep dark peat 

for this is the place 

the cockle loves 

this greying grace 

as safe as gloves 

the sweet of rot 

of once were trees 

the forests swallowed by the seas where the mammoth 

maundered away and died like the old La Rocque sign with the drowning guy 

where once were flowers and birds for the winging but here 

still 

is the forest 

singing.

Sentinel and holder of the truth you seek. 

Do you know or really care who truly I am 

In me lies the past and eons yet to come 

Death is not my fear, life an endless span. 

You plucked me from the lapping waters 

Wrestling with feeble tools and power 

Torches flickered with such weakness 

Against my fury, you can but cower. 

Blinded but now freed, on felled limbs I’m borne

Uphill we struggle past dolmens, beating the tidal creep

This journey to a new era of existence begins

Celebrate my resurrection or fitting that I weep? 

You pulled, pushed, levered and paid a heavy price

Backs broken, groans and slavery screams

Crudely primitively toiled to reshape my form

Now angular sentinel of your meaded dreams 

Offering limb and life you raised me to the fiery sun

In trance, dancing beneath the bloodied moon

My veins conceal truth you never will comprehend

In the vanishing light you placed me to guard your tomb. 

Looking down, I see those decaying beaded shapes

You mourned and lay these leaders and seers

Remembered with each passing of the solstice

Prostrate beside the Hogue, an omen to your fears. 

Now rank and frenzied bearded beasts 

Stabbing firebrands into my startled eyes 

Filthy hands groping for worthless trinkets 

A trail of murder buried in hordes of flies. 

Blackness returned as nature breathed its seal I dreamt of chants and burning candles smell

A new ritual repeated, softened by whispers

Told of penitence, eternity, heaven and hell. 

Cheering jolts my slumbers, the place now alive I hear creatures that move to sharp command

Creaking wheels and constant to and fro 

Misguided aristocracy, warlords of fated land 

Do I want this sombre tomb of sooted walls

Encased in shadows of your paltry meagre past

You hide my beauty from the air and sun 

I wonder how long your existence may now last. 

A huge beam enters and my crystals awaken as anew

Above me the cosmos, all beginnings and end

Endless the reminder of birth in angry molten heat

Here always is the reality of how we all transcend 

My eyes now weary as you behold me in the dawn

Stooping into the passage of ancestral sleeping night

Silent I give my warnings of the rebirths of my form

Beware your obsession with your fabled romantic plight. 

J’avons 

Lé solé, la mé, lé sablion, 

Les châtchieaux, les fortificâtions Allémandes dé l’Otchupâtion, Les pentecôtes, la rêsèrvâtion d’natuthe, 

Les pais au fou, la soupe d’andgulle, 

Les mèrvelles, lé nier beurre, les bourdélots, 

Les chansons, les poésies, les sonneux, 

La pêqu’sie, lé fèrmage, la finnanche, 

Lé granit, le bréha et touos chenna 

Ch’est pouortchi ch’est man bieau p’tit Jèrri 

Et jé n’voulons pon d’meuther 

autchun bord ailleurs. 

Little Jersey 

We have 

Sunshine, sea, sand, 

Castles, German Occupation Fortifications, Orchids, a Nature Reserve, 

Bean crock, conger soup, 

Wonders, black butter, bourdélots, 

Songs, poetry, dancing, 

Fishing, farming, finance, 

Granite, pudding stone & all that 

That’s why it’s my beautiful Jersey 

In the winding 

near-deserted  

lanes at dusk 

how will we comfort 

the Great Fretted Moths 

searching in their liminal silks 

for the echo 

of branches – 

if we drive out every place 

where the Tree 

bends its voice 

into the cotils? 

every gap in the walls 

or stone latch 

where leaves 

scatter 

into our stymied thoughts 

their green cadences 

of rustling  

air. 

When we sleep 

the open 

vowels 

of landscape still draw 

us back 

to the windswept oak 

the fissured bole 

of language. 

From Linda Rose Parkes’ second collection of poetry ‘Night Horses’ published by hearing eye, 2010.

Along the bay – it isn’t far! 

             Turn right here and park your car. 

             Then wander with me, if you will 

             through La Mielle de Morville. 

             This winding path will lead us through 

             a wild landscape lost to view 

             behind tall grasslands lined with flowers 

             where kestrels hang above for hours. 

            We move into an open space 

            where the evening primrose shows its face 

            and marsh harriers roam the skies beyond 

            seeking their nests by St Ouen’s pond.              

             We’re turning now beneath the trees. 

             Light darkens but we move with ease – 

             until we’re greeted with a sight 

             that strikes our senses with delight. 

             A peach tree stands there in full view – 

             a host of garden flowers too! 

             Cedars confirm the mystery – 

             this wilderness has history! 

            It was a family home before, 

            then used by Germans in the war, 

            and after their brief occupation, 

            the site became a dumping station. 

            Till Frances Le Sueur saved the day 

            and sternly asked the States to pay   

            to clear this area and restore  

            the natural world known here before.  

            a world where native species roam 

            and birds and butterflies are at home 

            and dog-walkers enjoy the view 

            for they are native species too. 

Let’s stop and park the car 

at the tree-lined Val de La Mare 

It’s a lovely autumn day 

The clouds have gone away 

and the walk to the reservoir isn’t far. 

Stay a moment, if you will, 

and watch the stream run down the hill. 

The hill’s not very steep 

and the water’s hardly deep 

but enough to power the wheels of a former mill. 

Till the Water Company pleaded 

and the government conceded  

they should build a reservoir 

for the water they’d require 

to meet the amount that people needed. 

Well, the reservoir’s there still 

at the bottom of the hill 

but before we reach our goal 

there’s a lovely tree-lined stroll 

which captivates us still. 

The walk has been designed 

to pass trees of every kind. 

Australia alone 

has a native species zone 

with Eucalyptuses among the trees assigned. 

In the American zone. 

three redwoods stand alone –  

with thin trunks that aspire 

to grow yet taller and higher 

until they reach the sky when fully grown. 

And more zones are to be found  

and avenues abound  

leading to a hoard 

of pathways unexplored  

through undergrowth on slightly higher ground, 

And in the evening breeze 

birds twitter at their ease – 

geese fly overhead in flocks 

and the owl seeks out his box 

secretly concealed in the trees. 

Now we’re coming to the pond 

and the dam that lies beyond. 

A wide vista opens out  

and as we look about 

we can gaze across the water at the cormorants and swans 

In the distance, St Ouen’s Bay 

glistens at this time of day 

as we walk past the pond 

and descend to the grass beyond 

and reach the opposite side and on our way. 

It’s quite a rocky climb 

going upwards all the time 

on a pathway through the trees 

where you walk on bended knees 

and end up with a scattering of grime. 

till you reach an open space 

that leads you to the place 

where you realise your mistake 

and cry ‘We’ve passed the lake! 

We’ll know the way much better the next time.’