Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Sun’s Up

Sun’s up, 

seagulls surfing 

upon winds 

of light 

and morning,

across the early 

dawning, 

and wisps 

of an empty sky, 

and below,

the tide 

is high, 

her waves 

riding,

crashing,

upon 

the old 

and crumbling 

sea wall, 

and behind

the dunes,

they that  tower

with shifting 

sands,

moving 

soundlessly, 

endlessly,

and inland

slowly, 

ever so slowly,

a distant train, 

rattles,

and crawls,

blindly, 

at the edge 

of passing time, 

and in floods 

of forgotten 

fields, 

mirroring together 

reflections  

the passing clouds

above,

great cathedrals

drift on

the wind 

with an awakening 

dawn,

of a December

sky.

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She walked

She walked 

along the sidewalk

in the early morning

of December,

beautiful

through the dull, 

the dark 

and grey, 

her face 

a picture 

of springtime, 

the promise 

of summer 

who walked

beside her,

never having 

gone away.

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Waiting for Snow

Skies full 

of moon 

and light, 

hidden behind 

the darkness, 

stars still 

and burning, 

the passage 

of darkness, 

in the coming  

of the deeper 

sleep of

lengthening night, 

For beneath

the gathering 

of shadows 

and the fall

of dusk, 

the dark 

of winter 

into December,

the longest night 

And of the season’s 

change, 

coming in flocks 

of invisible wings

and time, 

as it must, 

as it must, 

Whilst under 

the blindness’s 

of city windows, 

isolated islands 

of sleeping

parks

and the faded

memories

of summer

hanging, 

forgotten 

in the empty 

embrace 

the cry

and call

of the wind 

The wind

lost, bereft

naked leaves 

of colour

and dreams

of trees

snow falls

in whispers soft

and blind

that only the 

twenty first

can rescind.

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I have tried to rewrite the nativity and place it within the war in Ukraine. It’s not perfect, needs a little more crafting perhaps, and this is a first through reading!

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Snow Fall

The dull, 

heavy, 

distant thud 

of morning silence, 

fills the snow 

and fall 

of December 

dark and night, 

for where else, 

can one find 

the dream 

of summer,

than in the falling 

forget me nots 

of snowflakes, 

in the late 

awakening 

of dawn 

and light?

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Thumbprints

The moon, 

high above 

the freezing morning, 

in darkness, 

partly hidden 

behind 

the passing clouds, 

he shines 

blurred, upon 

the frozen earth, 

along the valleys, 

silent rivers, 

mists, fogs 

in season shrouds, 

for the longest night 

is approaching, 

the days, hours 

light, warmth

and home

echoes 

of summer, 

memories, 

as across the sky 

of stars 

and fallen leaves, 

in shadows still

bells a-chiming, 

winter holds, 

in snow and ice

life is soon

and gone,

in passing

time,

with her wings

reminding.

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December 

darkness, 

the earth 

enveloped 

in seas 

of clouds 

and winter 

grey, 

hard to believe 

the sun 

will rise 

above 

the rooftops and 

lift the stars 

of light 

from night 

to day, 

but for now 

the world 

is silent, 

hushed 

to stillness, 

the trees 

whisper songs 

of wind 

and summer, 

the moon 

hangs 

in the tangle 

of branches, 

slipping 

between 

the hours 

of midnight 

leaves

and the last

chimes 

of bells 

and towers 

as the season 

becomes colder, 

the night 

lengthens 

to deepen 

the shadows, 

from grey 

to blue 

and back, 

hard to believe 

the heat 

of summer,

the hope 

of spring, 

now 

that December 

darkness 

brings the blindness 

of the distant

past.

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Waiting for dawn ( Morning Coffee)

Well, with coffee in hand, buttered toast and summer strawberry jam, there’s no sign of the day. Night still presses the darkness against the windows, the garden in outlines of black, lightening shadows and depths of grey. 

I can see reflections of winter lights, the December Solstice and Christmas promises in the half reflections of my face, peering with hope against the window. Outside, it’s damp and mild, the cold and frost waiting in the clear skies of morning blue, hidden now behind the blankets of fog that drift over the river that runs blindly into the dips and folds of the distant valley.

I take a sip of coffee, a bitter habitual sip of caffeine, a bite of toast, the sweetness of the jam, reminding me of the heat and blossoms ripeness of summer, sleeping now, resting now, hidden in memories of the tilled and naked soil of sky and earth.

And so I open the terrace door, a slight breeze slips in to the warmth behind me. Fleetingly I hold the fading warmth of my mug of coffee, the silence is impending: something is happening. Not a bird, not a sound save the wave like softness of a car collapsing the distance and loneliness of dawn into the coming light.

It is lighter now. 

The temperature dropping, trees, hedges, houses move into shape, detail and into focus. But the memory of life remains, and is still. A dripping pipe trickles water in rivulets of time and place, the only motion, movement passage of night into day, passes into the empty flower beds, into the rot and residue of autumn and decay.

I turn back close the door. It’s lighter now: no hints, no colour, no sun, no birth of crimson clouds over the eastern tip of a reluctant, slumbering world.

Inside, the heaviness of sleep, heat, and the sweet warmth of yesterday, seems a betrayal of myself. I put the mug down on the small table by the turbulence of the night before, the glasses, the plates, the knives and remains of food upon plates, and thin platters of wood.

Everyone is still asleep, no one here but the echoes of me, the me that is trying to catch hold of himself, fill myself, the hollowness of the day yet to be born, leaving me alone. My heart beats, the rush of blood in my ears, the pulse of my life irresistibly leading me to step outside of myself and into the outside that is pulling me out, up, lifting me from black to grey to the fullness of colour, vibrancy and life, for it all begins again, the opening of the dawn, the beginning of hope, the dreams of living, decisions of not maybe, but yes, and yes again.

Dawn breaks my ghouls and ghosts of disbelief, for now the hour has passed, the light of morning floods in slow waves of awakening, another life, another day.

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Suddenly, she was awake. 

Alert.

Hyper aware of every detail around her.As she was before one of her migraines, her seizures that would blind her with a shocking, debilitating light.

Her penultimate stop was called by the recorded voice. She winced.It was fully light now outside. She normally felt this way in the middle of the day when it happened: triggered by tiredness, stress or that nagging sense of loss that followed her into her own kn er struggles.

At least she was alert. Watchful. The tram shuddered to a halt. She looked at the door nearest to her hiss open. No one got out. 

But he stepped in.

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The Eye of Night 

The eye of night, 

watches, 

blinks 

behind creases 

of clouds 

across the ragged 

winter dawn 

of sky, 

and through

the standing trees 

they that scrape 

and tear, 

rattling the truth 

at the empty wind, 

uselessly hanging, 

blindly gesturing,  

through invisible branches, 

guessing which way 

the beacons 

of light 

will slowly turn, 

and above the lines 

and folds, 

the geometric castles, 

the battlements 

of politics 

and power, 

the million stories, 

the shooting of lives 

of unknown stars, 

they that fall 

and rise, 

fall and rise,

in waves 

of doubt

trust 

the trespassing 

lies 

of media truth,

the eye 

of night closes,

if we are not careful,

if we are not careful,

for good.

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