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Poems to Images

Out in the field taking photographs of our countryside, I can often feel the mood of which I want to give my images in a way of expressing my inner feelings of what I see and try to transmit to the viewer, to put these feelings into words is not an easy thing to do and better left to the mind and pen of the poet.

The following are photographs I have taken and words of Elizabeth Lynn Smith an award winning poet has added her magical poetry to them, for me they open the image like a book and give me reason for taking them.

I would like to thank Elizabeth for taking the time to study the images and write the poetry for me, more will be added, I hope you enjoy them, please visit this page again.

All poetry is © Elizabeth Lynn Smith

Beyond the Ridge, (For Ellie)

Mid summer. She walks before me
scattering her four years-height
exaggerating grasses. Intent.

Reluctant to call her back,
I am jealous of her wonderment-
curiosity widens the path.

Suddenly, clouds absorb questions,
the Chevin speaks its own language-
every insect has a message.

I am touched by a blackbird's honesty.
Where light splits rock I think I see
the beginning of a slow migration.

For the first time I stand in the shadow
of her intelligence. Her wardrobe door
has opened. I cannot follow.

Little White Cottage, Airedale

The landscape sighs, invites me forward.
Darkened geography, wet flagstone fields.

Footsteps disappear between tufts,
hidden things half-listen.

Air hangs heavy with moisture,
birds fold wings, scatter small words.

Trees bask in their own shadow, breath lingers
on the skyline, leaves fall quiet as history.

In the illusion of its warmth,
a whitewashed cottage illuminates.

Time to Reflect
(Otley Chevin)

They sit softly, deep in age.
The rock, shaped by human warmth,
never flinches. Intimate silence.

Clouds change unnoticed. The sky,
fat with stories, unravels thoughts
into an untidy summer.

Otley uncurls itself below.
They look back at their own track,
shadow-thick with memories, flickering.

Leeds Road, swift, vibrates.
Rabbits race a jet2.com.
A jack russel struggles to obey.

One hand is placed in another,


We shared a love of poetry. Because her eyes were not so good I would recite to her and then we’d talk and talk about it afterwards. It brought back wonderful memories for her because Grandad use to recite love poetry when they were courting, she said it was really romantic but did confess that Grandad was just so enthusiastic she sometimes had to pretend to keep listening!

It’s simply called BETTY.
A Special poem to all who new and loved her

I consider myself lucky
she was not only Grandma,
I knew her woman to woman.

Family was everything -
deep love for all her brothers and sisters,
loving mum, second mum,
doting grandma, greatgrandma
and aunty to so many I lost count.

A handsome woman, dignified, petite,
sharp mind, underestimated intelligence,
quick to laugh, great empathy,
listening with no-nonsence advice.

She was soft and stubborn -
a temper to make up for her size!
My little spitfire, so full of life.

Strength of will to be admired,
knew exactly what she wanted,
we were told! She made us laugh.
Loving characteristics, our Betty.

I will miss being called Elizabeth.
I will miss the way she pushed her face
up close to mine when we talked.
I will miss her sayings, her wide tooth smile.

She had a stroke 10 years ago, mum
hers just last year. Grandma was heartbroken,
her little girl to suffer the same.

The strength of will passed to daughter.
They both pulled through. They would laugh
and giggle together in gobbledygook,
understand when no one else could!

Grandma and Martin had hidden talent -
telepathy. Sitting chair to chair across the rug
they would just look at each other,
burst out laughing, only they both knew!

She loved talking past memories
but could also think and talk in modern.
she had the gift of accepting change:

- caught dancing to pop music
with the youngest grankids upstairs!

- looking 10 years younger
after Julie’s curling tongs!

- telling Stephen
‘turn your music up louder’!

- those special Thursday outings
‘Martin, are we there yet?!’

If I close my eyes and listen
I can still hear her talk:

I hear her telling Grandad, playful-stern
‘now ... Steve!’
I hear her animated chatter with Aunty Frieda
joined by Aunty Clara my two Aunty Marys,
the laughter of Uncle John, Uncle Fred
and other loving voices too.

I just say goodnight Grandma, not goodbye.

One man and his dog

Early morning,
the sun between bleached sheets -
enough mist to move rock.

The day’s perfume not yet risen,
I walk inside my dream,
listening to myself - hear nothing.

Poverty of landscape, secretive.
Shadows have forgotten to show.
Wildlife sits like stone.

My dog is transfixed, soundless,
waiting for scents.
Colour is still being invented.