Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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November light

So beautiful, 

blending 

blushing, 

turning the skies 

blue, 

to light 

to gold 

and grey, 

forever 

in a tumbling 

of showers, 

winter 

slips,

across 

the face 

of darkness, 

grinning 

wildly 

at the

opening 

dawn 

of the

coming day

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Night Train

Across the crouching darkness, 

twisting the distances, 

a caterpillar 

of light and curves 

departs beyond 

the city edges, 

with carriage windows 

that brightly flicker, 

blinking between 

the flames 

and shadows 

of walls, trees 

and telegraph wires, 

the train travels 

faster, faster,

slipping, 

behind embankments, 

rattling steel, 

metal and echoes, 

faster and faster 

tipping skies 

and evenings

beyond the edge 

of the hidden world, 

with carriages

and  tunnels 

carved into blackness, 

taking time 

from departures, 

keeping arrivals 

suspended 

in the go-between 

of here and now, 

then and there

to be, 

faster and faster,

and deeper then,

into passenger time, 

expectations, 

and conversations,

the yellow eyes 

of electric lives,

hurrying from home

to work,

waiting, travelling 

beginning and endings

faster and faster,

journeys into 

the future 

of now

the train splits 

the darkness 

of a travelling 

night.

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Stone

Something I’ve noticed. Learned perhaps. From the two stones I lift each day, just before dawn. 

One is round and smooth.

The other as long as outstretched fingers, with bands and filaments, layered and sparkling with minerals. They are Mica, quartz, and hornblende.

The large pebble is sedimentary grey, with minuscule flecks of white. It is rounded, smooth and slips easily between your fingers. Made, formed, shaped through water, knocking against other stones and the patience of eternity seas: all of this under oceans of waves and an ever changing sky.

The other is metamorphic, heated to unbelievable temperatures, then pressurised until the rock itself becomes fluid. A thick coarse mineral band of liquids, that forced into itself, of itself, melting anything and everything into existing crevasses, gaps and holes.

Burning through and amalgamating with rocks around it until, finally, it cooled slowly, slowly,  for millions of years, the minerals growing in a super rich soup, forming, shaping, coalescing, until it became the matrix of atoms, molecules, colour and form that I hold as schist in my hand.

Both weigh more than a kilogram. 

Both were here millions of years before me. 

And you. 

And after these seconds of time, of life, of me and of you, both will remain in the millions of years to come as they are now. 

For our own tides of life ebb and flow in a greater sea, filaments and grains of sand, no more.

One thing I have noticed, astonishing to me, is that I have changed both in the short years I have lifted and held them.

Where my hands and fingers have held them tight, where the sweat of exertion has seeped from the pores of my skin, the round, smooth, faceless pebble has dark patches, dark grey marks were some kind of physical exchange has occurred. 

A time of seconds has impacted upon the time of millennia. 

Life and stone. Stone and life. 

Change as unexpected, yet as real as purpose or intent.

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A slip of light 

early morning 

darkness, 

the sky lengthens 

from black 

to steel 

to grey, 

November shivers  

through leaves 

and sunlight 

a touch

a smile 

of dawn

for so

begins 

another day

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A flood 

of darkness, 

hidden 

between 

the earth

the paling morning 

a mid-November 

sky, 

the trees 

are leafless, 

fallen

in blinking 

puddles, 

empty 

of stars, 

the clouds race 

in ships 

and sails, 

the wind 

whispers 

across heavens, 

in silence 

the wings 

of day 

arising 

as the hours

hurry by 

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She wrote me a letter today, came in the post, it’s been such along time since she passed through this way, I spent the day wondering if I should open it, just to find out for sure, I was peeling back the envelope when I heard the knock upon the front door, I left the letter on the table, walked down the empty hall, passed by photographs of her face, the memories of loves, lives and other times that  I recall, then I unlatched the moment, heart thumping in my chest, left my darkness and stepped outside, and there she was, standing, smiling in forgotten question marks, I held her close, closer still, forgot to remember why she left me, smelled her hair, her perfume, stared long in her eyes, whispered sorry to the past, the pain, the anger, the farewells and goodbyes,

Unopened, the letter lies upon the table, so long since you left this place, since you went away, I’m coming back home again, calling your name, wishing for yesterday… 

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Quiet

Quiet is 

the morning, 

the hush 

of the fall, 

the last 

of leaves, 

the memories

of October 

dry and broken

roll with the wind 

whispering

lost 

and abandoned 

against the 

garden wall

for above

the skies 

lie hidden 

in blankets, 

the fog 

of November 

hanging 

upon the

plough

of  fields, 

the call 

of a single blackbird, 

across 

the emptiness 

of days, 

as above 

the sun

in a blush

of crimson red

rises 

reluctant

at first 

and lifts

and carries

the dawn

who slowly

carefully, 

yields. 

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The Glove

She left it on the bench. A gift from her mother. It was raining. Tears from a falling November sky. She had left home at six, waited for the tram, as it climbed the curve through the winding crooked inclines of her home town. She could see it’s front light, an eye blinking through the streaming mirrors of darkened shop windows.

The others were there. Huddled. Gossiping. Looking at their time pieces under an umbrella sky: their watches and mobile phones brightly glowing. Everything was late, more expensive, less reliable and the down turn in the economy was as expected as it was unpleasant.

Nothing new.

She shut out the commentary and looked blankly at the tracks. The litter. The advertising hoardings that promised sun, blue skies and a grinning cruise ship, sailing through impossibly high cliffs and mountains.

She held onto her gloves in her left hand. They were still soft after all these years. A few wrinkles. A few stains. Creases at the back and worn smooth on the palms.

‘Not unlike me,’ she thought to herself as she adjusted the height of the umbrella with her right hand.

She was tired. Another late night. She enjoyed her time with them all. But it wasn’t summer anymore. She could feel it in her bones, see it reflected in the mirror in the morning and was reminded in her fleeting dreams that  passed like  clouds in a turbulent sky in  her fitful sleep.

It was rare she slept through these days.Autumn was coming. She recognised it. Like shadows of falling leaves across her soul.

The rumble and vibration awakened her from her thoughts. She could feel the tremblings through her high boots, her knees. She shuddered.

It was indeed, time to leave.

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In the Garden

Listening 

to the water, 

trickle 

the passing

of life 

into time

storm

and stream, 

whilst above 

November skies, 

sparkle 

with high

crystal clouds

so clear 

reminding 

of a summer 

and morning, 

and Spring 

as last winter

had once 

foreseen

For,

as yesteryear

beneath 

the apple tree, 

the last fluttering 

of butterflies 

and leaves, 

a blackbird 

hops between 

the shadows,

of time,

and apples 

wrinkled, 

autumn red 

brown

with memories

of green

As today

there is no wind 

just silence, 

distant voices 

of walkers, 

chattering 

on the lane 

walking

to winter, 

upon the softened

ground,

hints 

of December 

to come

upon the frozen

world, 

lost and once 

again

and again,

in ice 

and snow

to be found.

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Fire

There’s a fire 

in the darkness, 

the sky lit 

from the edge 

of the world, 

neither light 

nor darkness, 

the roaring 

of flames 

a blind giant 

burning the earth 

in hands 

of metal 

and steel, 

humanity, 

hope 

and love 

withheld, 

he stumbles 

and falls, 

pulling down 

the stars 

from the sky, 

crushing the earth 

with his fingers, 

stamping life 

from the burning 

of cities, 

no answers 

no questions, 

no reasons 

in the artillery 

and weapons 

just the stupidity

and death

of why.

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