The Horse Chestnuts

Poems and Thoughts from the Anxious Poet

Horse Chestnut in Endcliffe Park - Sheffield - Photo Adrian Scott

Listen to the poem read by Adrian

The Horse Chestnuts

I catch sight of the white candelabras
in the second spring of my anxiety, 
ablaze all over the branches of a 
large horse chestnut in the spry spring sun.

It makes me think of hope
for the first time in a long while.

In my twenties, along the towpath in Mile End,
I first noticed that piling up of blossoms
into great ziggurats of green and creaminess.
They sprung me into a summer of hope.
I was married there and had my children, 
fished in the canal and felt like a man.

And further back, that boy,
before my father died,
the lone walk to school, my legs cold
in autumn shorts, dawdling
down the road with the horse chestnut in it.

Scanning the verges and the tarmac
for a green spiked mine
that might explode
into my soft hands and concede a conker.

I knew then there could be bounty from those candles.
This sudden noticing of the candelabras
after such a prolonged lent,
with no awareness of any change,
is a sign that some part of me is listening out.

I look up again at each white bell tower,
the potential to grow into the conker clappers 
ringing out my hopes towards autumn.

This meeting of the one who observes
and the one who imagines
is the first intimation that I will come through all this.

This poem was partly inspired by this quote from a biography of the artist Vincent Van Gogh by Smith and Naifeh.

The chestnut trees and the clear blue sky and the morning sun mirrored in the water of the Thames; the grass was sparkling green, and one heard the sound of church bells all around. In images like these, Vincent combined observation and imagination to create a better, more consoling reality.

It features in my Night Sea Journey collection. Available by clicking here

It was written when I was in the middle of my anxiety storms. I began to find that walking in the green world was a real curative, not a complete cure, but a curative. The old latin phrase Solvitur ambulando - it is solved by walking became a mantra to me.

Walking and looking closely at the natural world were both curatives. I discovered that these practices were therapeutic, restorative, in a slow and steady way. I felt slightly better having engaged in them.

The process of combining observation and imagination, as the quote says, created a better and more consoling reality. I found these two aspects of my self - one who observes by walking and going within and the one who imagines, by writing poetry. I have come through those storms. There will be others but I can always read this piece and look for fresh curatives.

That is the beauty of writing and creativity - we make artefacts that stand as sacramental reminders of our discoveries.

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