Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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The Flight

I was awakened 

this morning, 

the first day 

of November, 

under grey 

and light, 

the dawn 

of North 

and Western skies, 

I pushed back 

the curtains, 

opened the window, 

and above me, 

a hundred geese 

maybe more 

were leaving 

heading for places 

warmer, 

where shadows 

linger 

a little longer, 

where I am 

just a memory, 

as this years 

last summer, 

my footsteps, left 

upon the sands, 

life and tides 

high 

across windswept 

skies

and shores.

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The Eye

Clouds have fallen, 

hugging 

the slow-tilled sky 

of an autumnal tinted 

reflected earth, 

breathing in wisps 

of smoke and fires, 

hinting

of morning 

and of grey, 

suffusing the bending figures 

of trees 

with shrouds 

and mists 

of silver 

and the hooded cloak 

of silence, 

for dawn still sleeps, 

beyond the hidden shadows, 

behind the cage 

of city lights, 

pressing 

against the darkness, 

for it is still early, 

the streets, 

are empty, 

stray cars 

slowly weave 

into the patches 

of fog, 

hanging in veils 

and ragged curtains. 

As beneath the static glare 

of abandoned street lamps. 

Something stirs. 

Slowly at first, 

then a gradual crease 

of light, 

an eye peers 

behind hedges, 

and walls,

where the crumbling facades 

and crooked windows, 

and the blinking 

reflections 

of the first glimpses 

are of an awakening day, 

for the wind lifts himself, 

shakes off 

the dripping branches 

of a million droplets, 

and as many leaves 

falling, falling   

into the soft, 

almost grateful embrace 

of a slumbering earth, 

and again,

the eye opens, 

the wind shivers, 

the first blackbirds 

stumble into song 

upon the topmost 

branches 

of tree-touching sky, 

along the telegraph poles 

and beside 

the first puffing chimney 

and smoke 

of autumn fires, 

the eye glows, 

pale, 

from smudge 

to smudge 

to fullness, 

from mustard yellow 

to rose petal red, 

it’s shadows stretching 

and yawning, 

the wind revitalised, 

slips between 

the thinning darkness, 

the sharpening fingers 

of light 

and cajoles the fog 

in clouds 

and whispers,

between the trees, 

the hanging branches, 

the shuttered dreams 

of a retreating night.

For the eye

the sun, winks, 

obligingly,

and lifts the sky 

to welcome the day.

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And night falls early 

And night falls 

early tonight, 

the soft grey 

to a descending 

dusk, 

the wind, 

hushed 

beneath the waves 

of darkness, 

November whispers,

time passing 

in the visible stars

of October dust.

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Fog

She creeps 

across the fields, 

along the empty

lanes,

beneath

the dripping trees

and the full

round,

smooth pebble

of darkness,

she waits,

hesitant,

on the edge

of the town

the street lights

flicker, blink,

fading under

the grey weight

of invisibility,

silence 

greets her

and  tiptoes,

as she walks 

across the junction

the traffic lights

on red,

stop, 

stare,

ignored

as she peers

through frosted 

windows, 

their blindness,

shuttered

temporarily,

running out

of hours,

reflecting her face

blank, 

expressionless,

she moves on,

drifting,

in clouds

and luminosity,

pressing against

garden walls

tilted rooftops,

open gates,

and the iron railings

along the edge 

of a sleeping city

park,

she weighs 

and waits,

heavily,

sinking

into the dew laden

grass,

and above, 

as the last stars

haunt the passing

night of sky

the sun, 

stretches

seditiously 

across

the thinning 

blankness,

kissing the wind

lightly,

and caressing 

the fog

to sleep. 

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Geese

A button 

of silver 

high above 

the dawn, 

a full moon 

mirrors the call 

of November, 

the last leaves

of the season,

whispering farewell

to the empty 

of trees

and softly, 

slowly, 

in silence 

fall.

And as dawn

clears

the stars

from the rising 

morning skies

they fade 

in blues

and greys

in dreaming

of summer’s eyes

there is a glimpse,

a glance

of light,

as shadows flutter 

in myriads

upon the garden

across the crumbling

broken wall,

for above

a flock of geese

tremble and pull

the day,

out, from under 

the night,

with rising wings,

of skies

and calls.

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Midnight awaits

Makes no difference, 

bringing time 

back 

from the sunset, 

the hours 

of night, 

the morning 

stretches longer 

into the awaiting dark 

of November, 

the fading 

of autumn, 

and the fall 

of winter light.

For the earth 

spins silently, 

a marble 

of blue, 

in the gravity 

of time and space, 

and here, 

in the hurry 

of lives, 

the crash 

of war

and ideas, 

the thunder 

of climate 

and change

the clock ticks

ever loudly 

for the midnight

bell awaits.

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Paper Moon

There’s a paper moon 

hanging

in the last 

of leaves 

and crowds, 

the falling whispers 

of November trees, 

the moonlight, 

blurred, 

soft and remembered 

the passing days 

of time, 

and memories. 

For of yesteryears 

unspoken, 

above the shadowed rooftops, 

the standing satellite dishes, 

the question marks 

and telegraph lines, 

the paper moon, 

watches above,

listens, 

passing stars 

across the heavens,

hidden answers

in constellations, 

and encrypted 

season signs.

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The Passing of Places

Hugging 

empty coastlines, 

beneath waves

of wind, 

sky

and place, 

the yellow train, 

stops 

from time 

to time, 

beside 

the hidden, 

the silences, 

the wind blown 

sands

the hours 

lost between,

without 

a sound, 

without

a trace. 

For beyond

the forgotten,

the dunes 

of memories, 

the greying skies 

of winter, 

high along 

the tides,

the future pasts

of shore,

the calendar 

of seasons, 

this late 

November,

in days 

of evening 

left

to remember,

from those

who journeyed

this way,

so long, 

and lost before. 

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Greetings from Crosby Beach…

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Spider webs and Sunlight

Spiderwebs 

and sunlight

the last

of autumn, 

his days

slipping

to winter

and skies

of grey,

sitting here,

a bench

a city park

a playground

of children,

laughter

and birdsong

for time

herself 

is just slipping 

away.

And here

right here

parents and 

Grandparents

sit, reminiscing 

upon

the passing

of hours,

generations

and history

statues 

and monuments

commemorative

memories  

the last stories

in fallen leaves

the farewell 

of summer 

amidst the death

of flowers.

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