<![CDATA[Hymn Of Nature

]]><![CDATA[The Clover]]>Tue, 19 Oct 2021 23:00:00 GMThttps://www.hymnofnature.co.uk/poetry/the-clover

On pastures near, on pastures far, all green they are with clover.
Abundant white flowers on summer days, and still when autumn’s over.

Three leaves there are aplenty, and yet we search for number four.
To see the one in myth and lore, with petal leaf one more.

We wish and hope for joyous view, to be met by lucky charm.
To feel one’s life is fuller than full, and none will come to harm.

To give one’s gifts, in bounty time, with no fear of lack or loss.
For cup to burst beyond the brim, offering presence without cost.

For one’s pledge with this simple bloom, is to treasure and to nourish.
To help a person upon their way, to flow and then to flourish.

For cow to graze, and feel the calm, to keep the storm at bay.
Be soothed by nature’s balm, be happy upon such glorious days.

To feel you are so very blessed, to be grateful for this wealth.
To know the fortune that you have, in just being in great health.

No need to seek such distant fame, for here and now is all enough.
To love and be loved, cherished much, honoured, without all the huff and puff.

By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2021

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Clover Flower Essence

]]><![CDATA[The Beech]]>Fri, 17 Sep 2021 23:00:00 GMThttps://www.hymnofnature.co.uk/poetry/the-beech

A tribute to the sisterhood, of all you provide and do.
To nurture and to nourish us, from the many to the few.
To welcome us in bucket loads, allowing us such peace and rest.
Where we drop into to your comfort zone, and feel so ever blessed.

Your support is such a treasure, it touches us so deep.
Our hearts are opened ever wide, to which phoenix tears do seep.
We know you have our back you see, to you we can so trust.
To keep us in the here and now, to boom and not go bust.

You have become dear family, in the journey to return us home.
To an ancient knowing, healing quest, one of lifelong roam.
In housing squirrel, shaman of our forest, gatherer of our nut.
You lift our spirits soaring high, pulling us out of our deepest rut.

The seed pods that you have given us, such inspiration they do bring.
Of all the gifts we have to give, of all the songs we have to sing.
Deep breaths we sigh within your presence, as we sink into your wood.
To dream of projects still to come, to realise if we could.

With red ribbon we do honour you, with our life we do so pledge.
We give you all of our waters, harmonised with love, in wedge.
We glorify you with our urine, we sanctify you with our piss.
Because without you in the forest, we’d never rescue our remiss.

We witness nuthatch upon your branch, swallow upon your twig.
We appreciate the marriage we have, of a commitment oh so big.
Of the deepest, sincerest feminine, where even sun can come and bask.
Where fire and water do so meld, all contained within one nature’s flask.

By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2021

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]]><![CDATA[The Buddleia]]>Tue, 31 Aug 2021 16:53:49 GMThttps://www.hymnofnature.co.uk/poetry/the-buddleia

You’re the autumn fruit for the butterfly, a harvest for the bee.
Sweet nectar for the hornet, every insect’s joy and glee.

To you they all do flock, to bask and feed galore.
On clustered lilac stock, nature’s larder full and more.

So much beauty to behold, from Small Tortoiseshell to Red Admiral.
Such a potent candy store, plentiful chocs of salted caramel.

All Lepidoptera they do descend, Cabbage White to stunning Peacock.
Replenishment is that assured, with sugar hits like seaside rock.

From fly and flea, to wasp and me, you’re such a homing beacon.
As nourishing as the apple tree, whatever power we are seeking.

To dip our tongue into your bloom, is heaven sent and made.
To suck your bounty until content, from fullest flower to seeds that fade.

What treasure it is that you do grant, to Brimstone, Painted Lady.
Giving energy to the winter months, courage to bird more sure than maybe.

For wings to beat and then to fly, to keep momentum up.
Reservoir of nutrition in the bank, abundance floweth over cup.

By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2021

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Buddleia Flower Essence

]]><![CDATA[The Training]]>Tue, 06 Jul 2021 23:00:00 GMThttps://www.hymnofnature.co.uk/poetry/the-training

In one I was wounded, brittle with fright.
In two I joined rank, for my life I would fight.

In camp, on rota, I dedicated my might.
In session, in fun, my poet-tree would delight.

In three I found me, antler, horn and bite.
Now towards the end, the reason is in sight.

By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2021

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]]><![CDATA[Morning Practice]]>Wed, 23 Jun 2021 23:00:00 GMThttps://www.hymnofnature.co.uk/poetry/morning-practice

Each day, I stand upon the circle.
With gratitude, forever present.
No thought, to yesterday or morrow.
Just here, to witness lunar crescent.

With orange, the dawn has broken.
There’s dew, upon this carpet green.
Sprinkled webs, still in the making.
Spirit’s here, it already seems.

On bended knee, a prayer is started.
A prompt, once more to dance.
Tobacco pouch, at the ready.
To greet this day, with pure romance.

Mayflies, hover on warm updraft.
Wren, hops upon the fence.
Blue Tits, in and out of boxes.
Bees, buzz towards the scent.

Golden shafts, draw me in connection.
Stretching up, I peer to see.
Beyond, I sense the black sun.
My heart beats, to infinity.

I call, upon the warrior.
The nurturer and the child.
Some days, it’s ever so stormy.
Others, more benign and mild.

There’s no change however, to this ritual.
For I’m committed, to this path.
A joy to perform, this spiral.
With mirth and mirk, I bath.

By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2021

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]]><![CDATA[The Verbena]]>Wed, 09 Jun 2021 23:00:00 GMThttps://www.hymnofnature.co.uk/poetry/the-verbena

What does it take, to make your best ever stand.
To go shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand.
Giving back to your brother, support to the land.
Spontaneous in the moment, or otherwise planned.

Placing arm around comrade, planting ally in heart.
No longer to be separate, no longer apart.
For together we are leaders, stepping forward as one.
No task is too great now, no mission left undone.

For now in the decision, one must make one’s own choice.
To sacrifice oneself, for the sound of one’s voice.
To lend support to a vision, an insight to a dream.
An eye for an eye, no more authority meme.

A contemporary figurehead, has more compassion to deal.
To be true, more authentic, to love and to feel.
To be centred and grounded, aligned and stood plumb.
Not to be pushed, or prodded, placed under the thumb.

For we’re not for turning, conviction runs through.
Gauntlets are laid down, swords ready with crew.
For now it is opportune, no time left to wince.
Where we are at arms, no need to convince.

We’re on our mettle, determined in our stance.
Passionate for our cause, a campaign filled with romance.
We’re the ones we’ve been waiting for, to that we hold dear.
Our position is so solid now, we live without fear.

By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2021

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Verbena Flower Essence

]]><![CDATA[The Quest]]>Mon, 19 Apr 2021 23:00:00 GMThttps://www.hymnofnature.co.uk/poetry/the-quest

I look, into the eyes of the sheep.
She encourages me, to dive down deep.
She chews the cud, and stamps her feet.
Wanting me to announce myself, with my own rhythm beat.

I wake in the night, and stare outside.
The rain has gone, but the stars not quite.
A veil there is, across the sky.
But a twinkle still pierces, my own unique eye.

For a portal has opened, and I can clearly see.
A clarity through a window, all the constellations and me.
All that I am is hear, near and far.
If affirmation was needed, there’s a shooting star.

I long for the sun, and the warmth to come.
So I can honour myself, and all with the drum.
To create a spark, and light a fire.
In each direction of course, rekindling my desire.

Gold and black, the totems are many.
Butterfly, hover fly, caterpillar, two a penny.
The star birds have come, and my spirits soar.
There are crosses upon the sky, my heart begins to roar.

Shapes in the cloud, to the East are seen.
A crescent, a horn, a stag’s head I would deem.
Back to the tent, there are musings a plenty.
A standing stone is born, and incense very scenty.

I sit, my back upon the tree.
Such a beauty from a distance, just thee and me.
In twig, in branch, in trunk, I love.
Placing my arms around you, I feel supported from above.

The daddy long legs is here, a symbol from another quest.
Like thistle, foxglove, slug, panther and the rest.
But to the golden orb, is where I must look.
To a huge swallow on the wing, a herald of the book.

I journey to the centre, to birth pleasure from the pain.
And yet another message comes, in the lining there again.
This time, fast fuelled fighter jet.
Not like passenger this morn, that’s another set.

There’s a goat-man on the hillside, smiling this way.
A buzzard flies South to North, to him I must pray.
His screeches, rise upon the upward draught.
Where raven’s realm croaks, like a spiritual raft.

The next sign that comes, is a bloody big splodge.
In humour I laugh, joy in my lodge.
Those black birds are at it, continuing with the climb.
To the pen I must drop, until another rich time.

Ash, rowan, sycamore, willow.
Thoughts drift to me, from my altar and pillow.
That orange great E, upon the white fleece.
Won’t leave me alone, or give me much peace.

Calling the shots, they dictate my next plan.
A baa from the bracken, walk, stomp or just pan.
There’s a rainbow where dawn breaks, and yet it’s still eve.
Swifts dart along valley floor, so close I barely believe.

A little bird comes, and tweets from the bush.
A flaxen gleam upon the hillside, as night starts to hush.
Bright satsuma against the blue sky, a chill wind doth blow.
Lifting my wings, I fly, and go with the flow.

My hairy friend is back, now silver and bronze.
I almost stepped on him, bringing down my tonnes.
All wriggled up in a spiral, he stopped me in my track.
Unfurling form his curl, he’s off to hit the sack.

An eerie cry rings out, from a circling bird up high.
Not one but there’s two now, of the same flock or herd in sky.
Masters of the hunt, when looking for their prey.
It’s time to snuggle up, and bring an end to this day.

Yet still there’s a heron now, rising form the river..
A full moon is on the up, all bar a sliver
Winking at me from the canopy, inviting me into the mystery.
Less questions in my mind, of my own forgotten history.

In the last throws of the light.
A moth bursts forth a-flight.
Dancing upon the thistle spike.
To a melodic thump of might.

My paper now, is all a glow.
Luminescent, to the backward throw.
A distant torch, is seen a part.
Of the heavenly body, tugging with my hart.

The wild wind has come, disturbing me with hurt.
Like the Hayoka at work, down in the yurt.
I dream of a horse race, where the leader is well clear.
But there is trouble on the course, he is thwarted, oh dear!

The buffeting of the tent poles, entices me outside.
Where Orion and King Cepheus rule, no-one else beside.
They call upon the warrior, the mighty king himself.
Guardian, protector, hunter, chief of animal health.

More visions come of Great Dane, and a flighty Jacob flock.
On rising in the morning, the ovine have run amok.
Sheep have come and eaten, my centre and my South.
Scoffing all the berries, bar 1 or 2 escaping mouth.

It is clear where the work is needed, for the freedom to come.
In flexibility of emotion, curiosity, adventure, awe-some.
Immediately there is a Lepidoptera, basking next to my chair.
An opportunity for me to look a while, and just simply stare.

For there he sits, wings open, soaking the warmth of the sun.
I can park right next to him, and energise all for fun.
Adorned he is in umber, burnt sienna, sunshine yellow.
For me it is just a pleasure, to be with this little fellow.

And then there is this tiny fly, of similar colour and nature.
Pitching upon my written prose, aware of the bigger picture.
In sunlight too is where he finds his natural home.
Crouched small and humble, a new place to come and roam.

Sat looking East we are together, like much of this journey’s core.
Praying for the clouds to break, to be bathed again once more.
And in a moment he is gone, one spring, one jump, one leap.
To another place he’s alighted, but his memory I will keep.

And so it is to all fours, down amongst the shit.
Just like my woollen friend, who dumped at night, one hit.
But now my attention’s drawn, to every blade of grass there is.
To every barb and seed I see, every insect in green mist.

For here there is an unnoticed sight, minuscule red eggs.
Lined out across a very fine leaf, as if attached with pegs.
And then there is this blue-bell, or lilac to be true.
Ever the beauty in my space, adding yet another hue.

Raven comes to call me, from the place of North and West.
So near he is this time, I honour him with my best.
Then settles wasp and fly, emblazoned with the noir et jaune.
Colours that are ever coming to me, midnight, noon or dawn.

I meditate upon my shield, my monarch of the glen.
Images come to me of royalty, of women and of men.
My flowers rock and sway, to a wind that blasts with might.
But I stand tall with trust, for now I have more fight.

Now to whittle a few hours away, upon the fallen wood.
Twirl the talking stick, walk reverse, do you think I should?
There’s freedom in this other way, something quite contrary.
And there within the stalks, lies black and scarlet fairy.

I watch her use the stems as roads, alternative tiny highways.
I realise now I must tread this path, as my own soul bi-way.
For here I am the man I wish to be, to do what I flippin want.
This is my space, my life, my water from the open font.

But here there is a thunder crack, the rain begins to lash.
Have I upset the code, taboo, behaving rather rash?
There’s a leak now in my lodge, a splish, a splash or two.
I decide to take a leak myself, and hope no need to poo.

But if I were to do so, I’m sure the fly of horse would come.
As he has done this alvo, when pitched upon my tum.
The underworld is opening up to me, down amongst the mirth.
My spirit begins to speak with me, not heard since kin or birth.

A shepherd gathers flock together, one man and faithful dog.
I spot a sign upon the mountain, lifting all the fog.
Tonight I heard a fable, of hunter, king and queen.
And there within the gorse lies Cassiopaea, clearly to be seen.

The unmistakeable W, courts marriage of boy and girl.
Sheep upon the landscape, giving me the very pearl.
And now the lunar skyline, is ablaze with peachy globe.
Whispers in the breeze come to me, caressing me at the lobe.

For here there is a peace within, of sun replaced by moon.
Both apparent in the East and South, giving me of their boon.
Tis the masculine and the feminine, where I seek balance at my core.
The physical and the spiritual, to which I both must enter door.

At night I dream again of marriage, 25 years to be exact.
Hardly seeming credible, for partners 21 and 22, a fact.
Written in silver bubble, upon the greying cloud.
The message is barely visible, let alone to be read out loud.

I ask the man called Beckham, a celebrity in his own right.
If he knows the meaning of this invitation, this very night.
There is a celebration to be had, as there’s an 18th birthday too.
Two events at the same time, it could be a hell of a do.

I also dream of three women, involved in a marathon race.
Two out in front and one behind, but she’s got the devastating pace.
Tis the third girl that is the winner, to ring the homeward bell.
To scorch up the opposition, and give out triumphant yell.

The night is framed with calling, of feral fox and chorus crow.
Let alone the bloody sheep, getting ever closer now.
Tis time to rise and see what’s next, upon the coming day.
To once more go to well, and see what nature’s got to say.

In morn I have this question, of what reverse C means to me.
Evident in threaded bag, and pube upon my pee.
Tis an emblem that has been here, from very origin and start.
From sunshine in the sky, of ear, amulet or looping part.

And so the answers come, with horseshoe on the tree.
And the sheep that are ever present, not one or two but three.
There’s a star within the crescent moon, upon my beloved ash.
And a sea of flowers apparent, upon the hide I have as sash.

Thoughts rise upon the Turkish flag, of dream centres I have seen.
Of Islam, Appaloosian, and all the spirit plants it seems.
For rose, and foxglove and thistle too, they create this very shape.
To compliment my stag and sun, to be worn upon my cape.

I delve upon the deer, I can see he starts to eat.
All the medicinal plants, he stumbles on to meet.
To the flowers I must go, and learn of this very art.
As a buzzing bee insists, injecting ear with potent dart.

And then amid dew drop belles, where thistle seed is strewn.
I’m reminded of my fertility, and my own authentic tune.
There’s magenta in the knapweed, and sandy coloured flies to find.
There’s a boat upon my East, and happy times to mind.

On back I sink to ground, and to whispy clouds I look.
I see hoof prints in the cumulus, and ideas begin to cook.
Another horn is there now, and face of billy goat.
And then the copter comes, a great dragonfly of note.

He disturbs me in my reading, visiting time and time again.
The shamanic way being made known to me, upon the dale and fen.
I wonder what can possibly, bring this story to a close.
A thought constantly with me, one the universe does pose.

Once more round the circle, where black slug is met and seen.
Patience is the message, before a great stag has come and been.
And then there is this gigantic cross, made up of trails of vapour.
And perhaps another sheep or goat, just adding to this caper.

When finally the clarity comes, it hits me in the iris.
Stood upon a shoulder bag, of a fellow seeker and aspirist.
There it is the stag I seek, stood amongst the flowers.
Of pink and gold in crescent shape, a man at the height of his powers.

And yet there’s still one more, awesome, mesmeric sight.
Of swallow and that of house martin, swirling in full flight.
Dance and dance and dance they do, in spectacular display.
Round and round and round they go, at frolic and of play.

And then the heron flies back in, landing plumb South West.
What a quest I’ve had, surely its been the best.
And if my name weren’t Running Deer, I’d have to have a think.
It could be that of Swallowtail, I’d better have a drink.

By Simon Blackler
Copyright © Simon Blackler 2021

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