Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Everyone 

has gone

from dust  

to dreams 

to dusk 

and darkness, 

‘Twil matter to none, 

for the morning sun 

stands empty, 

the sky 

a blanket 

of cloud

smoke 

and grey

with lines 

of footsteps

abandoned

ruptured 

in shadows 

of war

fractures

death,

destruction, 

and decay.

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The Sea

Above 

the rising tides, 

the winds 

that rush 

and fettle 

above the sky 

through the

shaking hands 

of empty trees, 

the blue of dawn 

in ragged strips,

wrinkles 

and shrugs, 

sighing mournfully 

for sifting through 

the last 

of autumn’s 

leaves,

a single crow 

barks above 

the mud, 

the plough, 

along the empty 

ripples 

of loam rilled 

fields, 

as the year 

doth end,

in blasts 

of storms 

and shrieking. 

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High is the Moon

Late afternoon, 

above 

the fading trees, 

the light slipping 

from blue to grey, 

the moon hints 

at the coming night 

and slowly bows 

across the sky 

and leaves

the chatter 

of birdsong

for another day.

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High Tide

In the high tide 

of darkness, 

in the cold, 

the wet 

and wind blown, 

the new dawn 

waits off stage, 

waiting for the surge 

of winter, 

the blindness 

of January, 

in seeds 

of clouds 

and moon, 

waiting to be sown, 

and below, 

the huddled rooftops, 

behind alder, 

beech 

and yew, 

the village church 

points skywards, 

and chimes 

to the world, 

time unfolding 

the hours anew.

For it’s a long way 

to summer, 

and autumns long 

and fallen, 

in the leaves across 

the empty country lane, 

and so to walk 

into the morning, 

with coat, 

hat and scarf, 

and believe 

that April 

will come

once again.

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The first light of morning

The first light 

of morning, 

dawn and grey 

with flower 

blossoms 

of clouds 

upon the rose petal 

east,

an opening sky, 

for today

a light mist rises 

above the empty fields, 

all is quiet, 

all is hushed, 

only the hours 

chime, 

as time 

whispers 

slowly unfolding,

the echoes 

and memories, 

in flights 

of wings 

and memories,

passing me by,

and taking me

…away

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The First

Woodpeckers, 

and silence, 

above woodlands

along the beach 

of memories, 

the new year 

opens 

in dawn,

time,

and light,

the wind 

and seas

still, 

at rest,

and so to walk

upon the shoreline 

empty 

as yet

of footsteps 

under 

the bluest 

of skies

and tides,

for there are

wings 

of days 

many, 

to come

to lift 

and hope

for a blossoming 

south

from an awakening 

west.

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There’s a wind

There’s a wind outside, 

brewing darkness, 

bringing shadows 

and thunder,

behind the early morning rain, 

in sheets 

of slate 

and angry grey, 

the sky is split 

in misshapen fragments 

of silver, 

shattered in splinters 

of lightening, 

trees, burgeoning 

building lines 

and edges.

And still, 

the day,

does open.

In splints 

of light, 

pillars 

of mists 

and falling stars 

like icons, 

the forms 

of shape, 

pattern 

and familiarity 

return, 

here,

a tree, 

empty of sky, 

there,

the call 

of a morning bird, 

without the trust 

of wings, 

above, 

a road slips 

into distance, 

without direction, 

there’s a ghost 

in the light 

and fading, 

struggling to climb, 

struggling to wait, 

in the unbroken, 

the spire points, 

but reaches not, 

only the clock 

calls the hour, 

chiming, 

one hour 

after the other, 

until the now 

is reached, 

and passes.

And still, 

the day, 

does open.

Now has passed, 

the dawn has come, 

rain foretold 

and waiting, 

wielded

a flash, 

another 

and then a rumbling, 

silence splits 

and shatters, 

in pieces of time 

like leaves 

of yesteryear, 

upon the broken, 

the fallen ground, 

cracked 

and fissured, 

the day fails 

to open, 

spilled 

and swallowed, 

in liquid light, 

deep and deeper, 

into the darkening 

the heart 

of a misshapen earth

And still, 

at last,

the day does open.

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Immediately she saw him. Their eyes met like fire across the middle distance between them. She didn’t notice anything else about him being except what he held in his hand.

He’d parked the car, two car spaces from the glass recycling containers. His old vehicle too valuable for his memories to be ruined by an accidentally dropped glass, or container. He was a little early for his tram. He could have parked at another station nearer to his final destination, but always chose further along the line in the opposite direction to avoid the crush of commuters searching like treasure hunters, for a seat.

He could have driven the whole way to his press office, but the queues of traffic, the race for parking, and the beetle eyed mania that was city driving had never appealed to him.

He had a few minutes. Switched off the engine. Pulled the handbrake. Switched off the radio after the news, the traffic and then the weather, and sat for a few minutes in the shrinking silence waiting to see the tram come from his right so he could time his walk to the platform. 

It was almost light. He could see the last stars fading, the sun, a mere whisper of rose coloured light behind the foggy blush of dissipating clouds. And there it was. An eye of yellow white light leading carriages, pushing back the empty darkness into an invisible wind.

He got out of the car, slammed the door with more than his usual vigour, opened the boot, pulled out his bag, let the lid fall with a reassuring thud and walked up the glass splintered incline onto the platform edge.

He saw it on the frosted bench. Someone had obviously picked it up off the platform and placed it there. Slim, well cared for a few creases of semi regular use. A woman’s glove. A shame too, to leave it behind. He picked it up, soft and not yet frozen, it had a soft fragrance, unmistakably subtle, a bouquet of morning flowers.

The tram roared and rattled to a stop.He debated within himself. To pick it up. Or leave it. Chances are she would come back for it. And maybe it wasn’t her usual stop. Or maybe someone found it on the tram and got out and left it here?

He heard the doors open. The hiss of escaping air. Decision made. He picked it up and stepped in to the closing gap of doors and into the warmth and bubble of light.

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The Flood

The flood,

an early 

dawn 

of darkness, 

steel,

grey 

and morning 

light, 

slips between 

the clouds 

and sky, 

so begins 

another day, 

in sight,

for the fields 

are full 

and plenty, 

the streams 

and rivulets 

silver quick 

beneath 

the tumble

and fall 

of sky

only shadows, 

as memories 

are lost 

in entanglement, 

the passing

of death

in this 

last expiring 

fall 

of why

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Last Lea

Last hours 

before midnight, 

outside 

it’s pouring 

with evening rain, 

the city streets 

swept empty 

with silence 

and reflections, 

everything

drawn within

shadows, 

puddles 

of life,

through 

this window pane

And so 

to look further 

through my own,

my  reflection, 

across rooftops 

and trees, 

up high,

to what is hidden 

behind clouds 

of a falling 

windswept 

December sky, 

I’m wishing you 

rest

across the miles

with your smile, 

your laughter 

and voice, 

to gladden 

and dispel 

the dark

of any night,

to color 

my dreams, 

lift these wings 

with dawn

and morning 

above, 

and beyond, 

awakening 

my eyes,

to the opening 

west 

and light.

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