Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Estuary (of tears and tide)

End of the river, 

the opening sea, 

patterns of grey 

and silver,

clouds upon 

the face 

of skies, 

smiling infinitely,

as  light connecting 

bridges, reflecting,

slow ships,

slip sides,

of channels, 

squiggles 

of rivers, 

and steel 

straight 

lines 

of canals, 

crooked docks, 

reaching,

stretching cranes 

and harbours, 

patches 

of green, 

yellow 

and brown, 

tapestried 

industrial landscapes 

in between,

the crouching grey

of towns, 

and between 

concrete fingers

of smoke, 

of light

and pollution,

a million people 

are living 

their lives, 

as hurrying 

ants, 

with their gods 

unseen,

whilst below,

deep,

and deeper

again,

below,

is the ebb 

and flow,

of forever time

the wash 

and fade,

of tears

and tide.

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I listened

I listened to the rain,

at dawn, 

falling, 

falling, against 

the rooftop window, 

a thousand needles 

of light 

hurtling 

from the sky, 

the clouds, 

the pressing blackness 

of a fading night, 

drowning

the empty dreams 

of yesterday, 

in puddles 

of reflections, 

what might 

and once

have been, 

now upon 

the thundered ground, 

And so I sat 

still 

and listened, 

again

to a small breath 

of life, 

drifting, 

a series 

of thoughts, 

passing 

across my mind, 

sipping coffee, 

wrapped in silence, 

alone 

in years 

and life, 

tossed upon waves 

and circumstances, 

decisions 

and pathways, 

for a moment 

still, 

and waiting 

for answers, 

and then the rain 

simply

stopped, 

in silences 

in brushes 

of wind 

and intensities, 

I left myself 

upon the chair, 

by the table, 

took my mug,

opened the front door, 

and stared 

at the blinded street, 

the street lamps, 

the swaying branches 

of trees, 

the huddled destitution 

of parked cars, 

the grinning 

shuttered windows 

and facades, 

and walked out

barefooted 

upon the glass 

of memories, 

the empty sky 

of reflections, 

and the last dance 

of alluring rain

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Driving home (to you)

Darkness fell 

it was early 

tonight, 

with rain 

and wind 

sweeping in 

from the North, 

driving home 

in the early 

twilight.

And between 

the blinking lights 

on the road 

to you,

the heavy darkness, 

of evening 

driving out, 

of the fading blue 

But the traffic’s 

heavy, 

on the road ahead, 

stacked up cars 

signals changing 

so quickly 

from green 

to stop 

and red.

Another flood

of rain 

the wipers 

struggling against 

the downpour, 

stinging 

the pavements, 

the pedestrians 

battling against the gusts 

and blasts at 

March’s fevered

door.

With umbrella lives 

all around me

turning inside 

and out, 

I’m driving home 

to you, 

into the darkness,

into the flood,

into the squalls,

and showers

through the nameless 

streets that 

silently shout.

But nothing can 

ever wait 

just for me 

but I’m driving 

driving home

skies clearing

from the west

I’m driving home 

to you, 

not stopping 

‘Til the first stars 

rise 

not stopping

until I feel you

in my arms

until at last 

I can rest

driving,

back home 

to you.

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Low tide

Here,

I can walk 

across the sea, 

only sand, 

sky and me, 

how long 

until the waves 

do come, 

and bring me 

home to thee? 

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Snow and blossom 

February blusters, 

her wind shifts 

from West 

to Northeast, 

bringing snow 

and frost 

to freeze 

January’s heart 

away, 

And March waits,

hidden,

in the sky topped 

branches of trees, 

watching patiently 

as the wind 

blows the darkness 

from the last 

of October’s leaves, 

for now 

there are 

snow drops 

amongst the drifts 

of white, 

even whilst Orion, 

steps across 

the skies, 

spring still sleeps 

in May time

dreams, 

for April 

waits behind 

weeping eyes.

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As if the light…

As if 

the light 

has turned, 

inside 

and out, 

the stars 

have become birds, 

in wings 

upon the morning, 

skies of rising 

daylight blue, 

and midnight 

in constellations, 

have become 

tear drops 

of frozen sunlight, 

caught forevermore,

in the early 

morning dew.

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High Street

Shops,

 like old teeth, 

yellowing now, 

fading smiles, 

like dawn 

on a winter day, 

boarded up, 

shutters down, 

people giving’ up 

just walking around, 

no conversations, 

nobody got the time, 

leaning,

against broken doors, 

no reason, 

just time, 

A few stores 

are open, 

long shadows 

stretching outside, 

dust and memories, 

what’s left 

of good times, 

high is the low, 

and low 

is the outgoing 

tide.

A dog scratches, 

on the sidewalk, 

the bakery’s 

still open, 

on the corner, 

by the bus stop, 

someone calls 

from a window,

‘Hey love,

got time to talk?’ 

Turning around, 

‘Do you mean me? 

She shouts back, 

‘yeah, you, yes, 

I’ve slipped the mat 

over the key, 

c’mon up,’ 

she’s all blouse 

and fluttering, 

died hair, 

bleached 

in the sunlight, 

wanting something, 

perhaps nothing

from someone,

somewhere, 

I’m tempted 

to take a look, 

but the dog, 

he just lifts himself, 

reminds me 

I’m just turning 

around, 

like me,

he’s biting his tail, 

chasing the litter 

at my feet, 

I walk on, 

past the church, 

the warehouse, 

the terraces 

in red brick, 

finding my way, 

walking along 

these unforgiving 

times,

the high street,

left abandoned,

for another day.

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S-P-R-I-N-G

Suddenly, 

so suddenly 

that the sky appears 

to blink 

spring appears, 

lifting 

the lengthening light 

across the day, 

as if 

summer rides 

across the dusk, 

as if 

the sunlight hours 

have always been,

soft and gentle, 

not a wind stirs 

not a wind whispers 

through 

the empty trees, 

all is silent, 

all is hushed, 

in the middle distance, 

where the cool 

of shadows 

of winter gather 

under the rising 

moon 

beyond the forest, 

the beach, 

the mirror 

of sea

and skies 

and the low 

murmur 

the wash 

of retreating tides,  

a woodpecker 

knocks 

and knocks again

against the locked 

and frozen 

winter door, 

the echoes resound 

through the fading 

softness, 

the curtain 

of early mists 

the starlight 

of velvet, 

the perfumed promise 

of the thousands,

the rising,

opening

singing,

a blossoming sky, 

of early

morning stars.

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Quiet (New Day)

Sitting with the window open, the earth hushed, still, I can hear a scatter of birdsong in colours of sunlight, yet to be blessed by the dawn of today. The first breath of morning slips through the ripple of drawn curtains, from across the garden, beyond the stream, the orchards, the edge of forest, to the broken ridge of sky, daylight awakens in light pastel blues, with gossamer threads of cloud and grey.

Inside, all is still. 

Everyone sleeps, I listen to the silence grow as the dawn lengthens  and sip my coffee only to hear the bells strike seven, the chimes echoing in the thin, empty morning air across the empty valleys.

Only I am here. 

On the very cusp of night and day.The awakening world waits, as if for a sign, a signal, as the night retreats, draws his shadows, reluctantly, slowly slipping back into the last vestiges of darkness, the hidden silence of a February earth.

And for this dawn, the sun rises, behind a fog of morning clouds, even the birds, singing, crying, chorusing cannot lift the pre dawn gloom, and yet, and yet, as a first car chokes into life, a blink of light switches on in a neighbouring house, as the street lights turn off  and somebody’s window rattles open, as a cat stealthy stretches across the lawn with predatory foot steps, silencing the birds, at least for a while, the day shivers awake.

Crows bark, a distant buzzard cries, a flap of wings flicker across the pond as two mallard ducks rise almost with an air of royalty across the garden wall, circling higher and then higher again above the street, the well kept gardens, the awakening houses, disappearing at last into the first fingers of morning light.

Suddenly, a woodpecker knocks upon the fallen hollow tree, born of winter gales and storm, once, twice, thrice. Disturbed, a jay bird nervously cackles, rising in a plume of colour and flustered irritation.

Somehow, the day is a part of me.

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She sleeps 

She sleeps

holding night 

in her hands, 

still, in her lap, 

her breathing soft, 

rocking gently,

silently,

upon the train, 

as night passes 

in glowing, 

glimpses 

of light, 

whilst outside,

the rushing shadows,

race and hurry,

with time herself 

passing by, 

but so still

she listens, 

and dreams, 

the evening long, 

the song

of her journey, 

longer, 

resting the twilight 

of a passing day, 

and in those 

preciousness 

of memories, 

lifted almost

to the sacred, 

the beautiful blue 

of her summer skies, 

her face 

slowly, gently 

softens, 

opens,

to the invisible wishes, 

the coming hush 

of a welcoming night, 

And then,

there comes a flurry 

of invisible blossoms, 

the precious time 

of moments, 

a hundred,

a flood,

of midnight stars, 

for she smiles

in her sleeping

in constellations,

the most beautiful 

the light, 

the life 

of resting,

her face

the mirror,

of a flower

of light,

for the world

inside.

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