Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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I looked up

this morning, 

and saw the moon 

descending, 

in slips 

and rolls across 

the windswept storms, 

seas and skies, 

blinking, watching, wondering, 

behind the clouds 

of curiosity’s eyes, 

for whilst against 

a proud and tall 

sycamore tree 

I stood, 

limbs astride, 

branches extending 

to the thundering, 

roaring, heavens 

high above, 

a single seed 

of passing autumn, 

fell, in twirls, 

turns and whispers, 

onto my outstretched hands, 

and for a while, 

I held the message 

from this earth 

of wonder, 

and chose again 

not death, 

not harm 

nor the ignorance 

of silence, 

but the power 

of life 

for good.

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Pathways to the moon

Above the hidden 

the stars, 

high beyond 

the whispering tops 

of trees, 

the moon 

slipped between 

the clouds 

of midnight, 

and spread diamonds 

of constellations 

in their thousands 

upon the silver 

the branches 

of yesteryear’s 

leaves, 

For as I travelled,

along the moonlit,

the pathways, 

hidden in winter,

the darkness, 

dreaming 

of the light, 

airs and perfumes 

of a still 

and sleeping spring, 

I saw glimpses 

of summer time,

in the rising lift 

of morning

in the hushed 

breath and quiet

that only

a passing

winter night

can bring.

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An Early Spring?

It might

yet not be

May,

with 

forget-me-nots

to be,

but spring is 

awakening,

behind the grey,

the still,

the quiet,

of February 

For upon

this very morning,

the birds

that sing

do so

by calling,

the colours

out

of silence,

the new grass

and green, 

As upon

the garden

lawn,

and lighter 

dawns 

the thinning

blues of

dreaming 

skies, 

a single flake

of snow 

and drop

behind

the wind

aside

For the shadow

of sunlight

is upon 

the crumbling 

winter 

crouching 

in frozen

forgotten 

glances,

beyond

the sunlit

garden wall

outside.

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Cold

Crisp

and cold, 

the morning

slipping,

from night 

and stars,

the opening day, 

yet foretold, 

For dawn, 

her light,

is awakening low,

in creases 

of sky,

the opening hour,

in colours bright,

and winter gold.

For an eastern 

wind

is lifting light,

to dreams,

to daylight, 

the birth 

of Spring,

in the tearful dark

of winter’s eyes,

crisp and gold,

that March

in rain,

and storm 

will bring.

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On 

On the last cusp 

of evening, 

just before 

the hush 

of dusk dances 

the last dance, 

through 

the speckled sunlight,

amongst 

the flickering branches,

beneath the peach 

and blossom, 

the fall 

of a late 

summer sky, 

if you listen, 

if you listen 

carefully, 

and in the time

it takes

to cross 

the footbridge, 

over the stream 

that empties itself,

out beyond 

the woodland, 

into the vastness 

of sand, 

of beach 

and the slow tides 

of retreating time, 

if you walk 

over the bridge 

and look out,

to the west, 

to the retreat 

of sea 

and memory

across to 

the estuary, 

the lowest 

of tides, 

in the time 

it takes 

to look over 

the edge 

of the world, 

where mountains 

fall in ancient legends 

into the sunset, 

into the reaching 

the waves 

and stairways 

to the emptying 

of the sun 

the last 

of these passing 

of days, 

if you listen beyond 

the distant cries 

of waves, 

listen,

behind the calls 

of the lost 

and drifting calls 

of the curving, 

rising, 

falling spirals 

of hills, 

you can hear 

the call 

of buoys 

and bells, 

the passage 

and rumble 

of ships 

that leave 

and heave 

in throbs and smoke 

beyond the river 

to the greater skies 

beyond, 

and there,

in the middle distance, 

between the now 

and then,

before and after, 

there and here

you can feel 

the touch 

of sea, 

and air, 

wave and sand, 

the wrinkles 

and ripples, 

of tides and time, 

the touch 

of silver-gold 

and yellow, 

the ochre red 

of a deepening dark 

of a new coming 

the wave of night

and star, 

moon and light, 

just there is 

where you can

vanish 

into yourself

beyond your self

in the unanswered 

vastness 

of an empty sea.

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As tall as the wind

‘Who is as tall 

as the wind?’

said the sea 

to the sky, 

‘why, not me!’

whispered 

the tree

with her leaves, 

tickling with curiosity 

by and by.

‘So, who is 

as tall 

as the wind?’

asked the tree 

of the earth,

‘why, not me!’

answered the seed

growing with life

smiling and laughing

with mirth.

‘Who then 

IS as tall 

as the wind?’

asked the seed

of the soil

‘Why not me!’

replied the worm

eating 

and breathing

in consummate

toil 

‘Who then 

is as tall 

as the wind?

You?’ asked 

the worm

to the bird 

flying high

overhead

‘Why, really,

not me?’

buzzed the bee

rather curiously,

it must be said.

‘It is I

who is

as tall

as the wind,’

replied April

and stretched

as tall 

as the sky

and chased

any doubts 

from winter’s

goodbye.

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Silence and Sunday

February, 

and daylight 

creeps slowly, 

stealthily, 

silently, 

across the eastern rim 

of a rising sky.

Hushed, 

are the winds, 

the trees 

and fields, 

as a single bird 

lifts the wings 

of dawn 

to fly.

For it’s colder 

today; 

the shadows of 

dark, 

of night, 

slip across 

the empty streets, 

beneath 

the street lamps, 

naked of light 

and empty 

of meaning: 

the lengthening lens 

of light begins 

to open the awakening 

of another day.

For nobody’s awake, 

just words, 

being written, 

describing, 

encircling, 

an awakening world. 

And beautiful is 

the sunrise, 

the ripples 

and wraiths 

of pink blossom 

and cloud, 

lifting the rhyme 

the hymn

of early morning 

hours.

And in the very moment 

of waiting, 

the church bells chime 

and quiver, 

the thick blanket 

of morning’s cold, 

the frost 

of starlight 

in veils 

of white and grey, 

spread invisibly: 

millions of fingers 

of diamond glass 

spread in fires 

of light and reflection 

across the ploughed 

and patient fields, 

deep in winter, 

deep in the frozen, 

deeper in the roots 

that keep the slow 

and turn of earth 

and sun,

forever in motion.

And above, 

the moon, 

the moon 

that was risen,

now falls 

slowly, 

silently, 

softly in dreams 

behind 

the shuttered eyes 

still sleeping, 

in embraces 

of stupor 

or slumber, 

the people turn 

and moaning 

lift the day 

from pillows, 

to windows 

missing the first 

of hours unfolding, 

lost in forgetfulness, 

the words stop, 

the silence, 

listens, 

lifetimes in patterns 

of light 

at last, at last, 

unfold.

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Flurries 

Empty,

the first 

of flurries,

the fall 

of February 

morning

snow, 

across 

a dreaming 

of blue 

and  

dawn,

brings the winter 

tears

of weeping

sky, 

lost,

bereft

and forever 

dreams 

of spring,

to being

reborn.

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This  day 

of shadows 

and wind, 

bending treetops, 

moaning, 

and menacing,

in gusts,

and roars, 

bellows 

and invisible rushes 

across the hidden,

the hurrying dark

of February skies,

whilst above,

high above,

the rain washed 

streets, 

the puddles, 

and reflections, 

the blinking 

awakening lights 

of houses 

and homes,

the moon, slips 

between ocean skies 

of racing clouds, 

in buttermilk yellow, 

grinning madly,

wildly, 

at the morning 

storm.

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S(now)

A hushed breath 

of morning snow, 

awakens the hope 

for spring.

For who knows 

where the winds 

may blow, 

that tomorrow’s 

dreams may bring?

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