Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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YouTube(It's you-not me)

Taking my eyes 

off the stage,

Seeing the eyes 

of the crowd 

All eyes closed, 

cameras wide.

No ones listening to me

to the notes deep inside.

Choose to record me

post me online

Steal my bread 

and butter

used to keep 

me alive.

A million hits,

the drug 

of the masses,

likes or dislikes

we’re not listening 

anymore,

just downloading 

the moment.

Don't know what for.

Choose to record me

post me online

steal my bread 

and butter

used to keep 

me alive.

Thousands of me

posted online

whose to believe?

No fans of mine.

One face, 

one life

one love, 

one art

years of playing,

music,

you’re stealing 

its heart.

Choose to record me

post me online

steal my bread 

and butter

used to keep 

me alive.

Music like plastic

every bottle a day

in the sea, 

of forgetfulness

to be thrown away

I'm the one 

in the crowd,

now looking 

at you,

standing on stage 

you're all playing me.

Mobile friendly, 

too blind to see.

Copying's no law, 

it's music and free

I'll play for you, 

you'll copy for free

A chord then 

for a change

If you can remember 

who is me.

Choose to record me,

post me online,

steal my bread 

and butter,

used to keep 

me alive...

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Despite herself, and grasping both gloves, she couldn’t avoid his eyes, she looked back at him, could see his confusion, his face like the changing of seasons, flickering and changing as lights across a hillside.

‘Yes, please…’ the words slipped weakly from her mouth, then stronger,’why…why did you take it with you?’

He looked away, wanting to hide the naked loneliness in his eyes: the loss, anger and passion that still haunted his waking hours and chased his dreams in terrors whilst he slept.

Somewhere he found the strength. A stranger’s familiarity. The way the morning light had cleared the skies and reflected through the strands and waves of her grey sandy hair that flickered in waves across her face.

‘I was reminded of who I have lost,’his voice a whisper, a mere echo in the empty wind that seemed to lessen as he spoke,’the glove, two, not one… her hands.’ He struggled against the rising tears that threatened to engulf him,’she…I….and then she was taken away from me, all I had left. It was too late. I was too late.’

She could feel his pain. She stopped. Felt the air shimmer in his trapped feelings within him. But he was strong. She could feel that as he trembled to master himself.

‘I don’t even know who he is, what kind of…’ A gulf of doubt, fright and fear threatened her. She suddenly saw the trees bend over on top of her, the sky press down, the path to her office press and wave as her eyes tried to seek a place to run. Her voice to cry for help against the wind.

But then she looked at him. Through him. Their eyes met again.

‘Look, we both have to go to work. Shall we meet for the journey back?’ She looked at him as if he seemed to become whole again.As if the wind had shaped his emotions back from tumbling to an edge that he was standing upon inside of himself. 

And then she added,‘I’m working through my lunch…by the way, it’s Heather.’

She touched him lightly on his lower arm, grinned at his confused expression and walked away.

He watched her walk away as if he had seen something completely new in his life. A new colour or sound, one moment of freshness. Just then, he remembered and shouted after her.

‘I’m John, by the way, I’m John,’ he repeatedly stupidly and then remembered,’Here, at four thirty?’

He waited for what appeared an eternity, but was less than a second.

She turned, already leaving the path. 

And waved.

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Two dawns (and a day)

Still 

is the morning,

early sunlight 

on a distant hill,

missing 

your footsteps

climbing 

upwards

to the awakening 

view.

So along 

the pathway

across ripening fields 

and ripples

of golden wheat

I imagine

your smile,

when these 

two dawns 

do meet.

For the sky, 

is so perfect,

a summer 

of blue,

the sparkle

of life

awakening

this August 

a day

for dawn,

and the 

beautiful smile

that is you.

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Blackbird

There’s a blackbird 

singing across 

the still morning air, 

her song ripples 

in the moonlight, 

a melody 

of a summer stream, 

wishing the dawn 

was already there.

For it is deep 

in the mid 

of winter, 

the snow drifts, 

high upon 

the garden wall, 

the skies hidden 

by fog and banks 

of rolling cloud, 

her wings still folded, 

waiting for dawn 

her springtime call.

And for just a moment, 

a mere fragment 

of time, 

the wind whispers 

through trees,

the dune like drifts 

the settling silence 

of January snow, 

as one blackbird sings, 

another answers, 

the day awakens, 

shivers and wonders, 

as the sun lifts 

the heavens smile

for only the blackbird 

can awaken 

the dawn’s delight

and heavenly 

glow.

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If (Politics and Nature)

If the moon 

slipped and fell, 

from the cradle 

of skies 

to the wind blown sea, 

would it matter, 

would it matter then, 

to me? 

If the stars 

then tumbled, 

in a crown 

of constellations 

upon the waves 

of majesty, 

would the fish 

then listen 

to the wings 

of gulls calling 

and crying 

in glee? 

And on the shore, 

when the high 

of tide has retreated 

and left the detritus 

of cost and life 

upon the shore, 

will there be 

anyone to remember, 

to remember, 

when the you

and me

are no more?

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Hushed

Hushed 

is the snow, 

the first morning 

of another day,

her footsteps still 

following 

the stars, 

the dawn 

has lifted 

away, 

for the silence 

fills the emptiness, 

the hidden blue 

of her eyes, 

tears in droplets 

of ice, 

frozen ‘til April, 

in the awakening 

sunrise.

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Morning bells

Morning bells, 

the church tower 

lost in flurries 

of snow 

does chime, 

winter light 

returning, 

dawn edging 

above the drifts 

and clouds 

of dawn 

and time, 

For another year 

stretches, 

in calendar days 

the retreating shadows 

of yesteryears,

‘how long?’

the blackbird 

sings 

above the hours 

‘how long?’

he sings,

into the darkness

waiting,waiting,

until spring 

does hear.

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Running 

Running

with the sky 

full, 

open

the last

of dust

of stars

in my eyes, 

the wind 

in my hair, 

the dawn 

snuffed 

into silence 

memories 

of night

and blindness

hidden,

by the wind

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High are the stars tonight

High, 

are the stars 

tonight, 

beyond the skies 

of this room 

of bed 

and sleep, 

with dreams 

to become, 

the earth turns 

an invisible hand, 

across the heavens, 

in time to trust 

and time 

to keep…

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The Glove 

The doors once again hissed tightly shut, this time closing behind him. No place to sit. He put his bags on the floor by his feet. Leaned on the glass panel and looked around him. He held the glove uselessly in his left hand and just for a few stops, shut his eyes, and trusted to the muffled rocking motion, the regular stops and the warm, dry welcoming air blasting from the heaters.

He awoke with a  start. Feeling a hand pressing lightly against his arm, and a  deep, whispering voice, that unequivocally stated:-

‘Good morning, you have my other glove I see…’

He looked into her eyes for the first time. Blue, tearful, and sparkling, with a sense that he was looking at the ever changing skies, above an incoming tide.

For the first time, the words, his thoughts, his very sense of himself, simply fell away, this as as he looked into her gently receding blue. As if he had been struggling against drowning his whole life only now to have found someone, a stranger, offering him earth to stand on and a blue sky to trust.

She said again,

‘It’s mine, I think I have the other to match…’ and she touched his arm again.

His legs suddenly felt weak. His heart rate rippled and he heard the recorded voice announce his stop as the team  trundled to a halt.

The doors hissed open. His bags at his feet seemed to belong to someone else. 

She touched his arm again, ‘Are you okay? I’d like my glove back, please, see, they match. The next stop, is mine.’

‘This is mine, ‘he stumbled, ‘ I…here, sorry, I found it at my station. On the bench.I….’ 

The words struggled to come to fruition, coherency: his breathing was constricted. He felt light headed, as he lost his balance and fell against her.

The doors closed with their predictable and shuddering thud. The tram whined and rocked, speeding up in lights and reflections to the next stop.

Briefly, she steadied him. The next stop was her own. He released the glove as she took it from his hand.

‘The next is mine…how will you?’ 

She looked past his eyes to the display behind his head.

‘I will walk back, the press office is not so far, you? Where do you work?’

Around them both, the insulated lives of others hurried on screens, through ear phones, the occasional book, and blank stares at the passing streets and shops, as they sped past the standing traffic queues of cars, busses, and lorries, coughing and blinking impatiently.

‘Just here,’ she whispered quietly, ‘behind the church, across from the city gardens, the practice.’

‘Yes,’ he said, bravely taking her description for an invite,’I can walk back from there.’

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