Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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The Stretching Miles

Stars and ships, 

sails and shrouds, 

the evening rests 

upon passing clouds, 

and above, 

the moon rises, 

high and slow, 

upon the hills 

and stretching trees, 

as October bows 

to the season, 

summer’s left, 

September’s leaves. 

And across the silence

the ploughed fields, 

and beyond 

a pointing church 

along the empty lanes, 

where shadows 

gather and the wind 

passes, whispers, 

along the lonesome lines 

of telegraph wires, 

invisible and restless

Orion stands 

tall, 

proud, 

massive

guarding the seasons 

the stretching miles.

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A Thousand Voices

A thousand voices 

singing, 

dawn hidden 

in the early 

morning rain, 

listening to silence 

between  rain drops, 

whispering your name, 

for as her sky 

lengthens, 

and dawn awakens 

to another 

October day

the trees bend, 

beckon, 

empty 

of leaves 

‘return soon 

dear spring,‘

they murmur,

‘blossom, bless

this life, 

dream 

of us

this winter 

until the birth 

of May.’

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The ‘Politician.’

I woke early, the day still dark, the street lamps, bent and crooked, peered into puddles of light, searching, it seemed, for reflections not of their own, it was still and silent, no traffic, no birds, just the soft and gentle dance of early morning rain.

And she was there again.

As if waiting.

As if listening.

Waiting for me to pass.

For it was warm. Damp. Nobody except us on the flooded silver silence of the avenue.

She’’d clearly been standing on the left in the shelter of the broken wall for a while. Huddled under the apple tree, still laden with the bounty of this mid October day yet to come. The apples hanging in clusters of nodding heads in the hidden shadows and dark.

There was little wind. And the little there was,  ruffled her pointed coat swept smooth and back, for I was no danger to her. She knew.

Suddenly, and it was suddenly, for she stopped me still and left the shadows of branches and trees and walked or rather waddled in a modestly dignified manner across my path, sniffing and sighing as she went, blustering and blathering like the old seasoned politician of dawn she was, and followed the curb on the other side of the road and left the darkness behind.

It was raining heavily now. 

The drops spattered against my hood, dripping upon my rucksack and began running like tears down my smiling face.

Dawn was just a few Hedgehog footsteps away.

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Blue

Blue 

is the moonlight, 

silver, 

across the bedroom 

door, 

the shadows 

as clear 

as morning, 

the nights 

of starlight 

hidden, 

upon the broken floor, 

for whilst the path 

is clear, 

along the garden, 

over the bridge, 

into the meadows 

open and near, 

the trees still tremble 

in whispers, 

the last hush 

of this passing day, 

dawn might come 

tomorrow, 

if time 

shows her the way.

For the moon 

is high 

you see, 

beyond the distant hills 

and towns, 

searching 

for her reflection, 

in rivers, lakes 

of opalescence, 

still in the hollows, 

the fog and mists 

of October shrouds, 

And so 

the church bells 

ring, the passing 

of a season’s light, 

fading by 

the hollow echoes 

of chiming hours, 

for it’s you, 

I dream 

of tonight, 

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The Eleventh (sleep of Autumn)

Warm, 

Autumn awakes, 

and throws the blankets 

of stars off his back, 

sits with his back 

to the apple trees, 

sighs at the falling rain, 

and looks out 

at the first 

of dawn, 

her fingers 

stretching the sky, 

across the morning’s breath 

of light.

He shivers, 

not that it’s cold, 

but because 

of his dreams, 

the echoes 

of summer, 

this passing 

of days, 

and his sister, 

Spring, 

lost to the earth, 

sleeping, 

deeply,

by the plough 

of fields, 

under roots 

of trees, 

beneath 

the neap 

of tides, 

the shadows 

of rest, 

imagining colours 

and blossoms, 

fertility and fecundities, 

the giving 

of seeds, 

in the joy 

of life. 

But she sleeps.

He stretches 

and stands, 

the wind 

blusters about him, 

the fire 

of leaves 

rise and flurry, 

in dull, 

in damp, 

in the dust 

of early morning grey, 

and then settle again 

about his feet, 

a heaped pile 

of memories 

and moments 

to bury deep, 

then bury deeper 

until the month 

of May. 

He yawns, 

the wind again,

stirs and tarries 

in the empty canopies 

of the thinning darkness, 

the silhouetted branches, 

the burning fires  

and twigs 

of the solitary souls 

of trees, 

‘Enough,’ he shouts, 

in a roar 

of gales and rage,  

and rips his hands 

through clouds, 

the last of stars 

and a stubborn 

morning sky, 

the earth tilts 

and trembles, 

he thrashes and turns 

expanding,exhaling 

into the first 

of the November wrath 

of winter storms, 

rain and hail, 

gusts and drops 

of heavy fragments 

of an already empty sky. 

The Earth spins.

Suddenly 

and depleted, 

he collapses 

and falls 

in mists 

and shrouds, 

slipping into frost 

and silence, 

the shattered puddles 

iced and cold,

over his head, 

he lies, 

dead and frozen 

across the huddled darkness 

of dull November 

and the last struggling hands 

of dawn 

and morning gold.

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Summer’s last 

I left the summer 

this evening, 

quietly walking home, 

as she whispered 

across the fields, 

for I could see 

she was alone, 

for above 

the stars were weeping, 

many slipping 

from the evening sky, 

‘farewell,’ 

they seemed to tremble, 

as she bowed 

to the harvest moon, 

and sang 

a slow goodbye, 

And in her arms 

were apples 

full and rounded, 

blushing, 

from the late 

afternoon sun, 

So I stopped 

took one,

and listened 

to the silence, 

the last 

of summer 

to remember, 

the memories 

and laughter, 

in colour 

the fallen leaves

that autumn

had left undone.

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Still

Still is this morning, 

the birth of time 

and moments 

beyond the dreams 

of a passing night, 

hushed are the whispers 

of memories, 

as the wind tickles 

the treetops, 

Dawn opens 

the sky with delight. 

For the colours 

are of meadows, 

springtime, 

blossoms across 

the sunlight 

of flowers, 

as Autumn hints 

at winter, 

in the passing chime 

of chasing hours.

And so 

another day 

begins, quietly, 

for there’s no one else awake, 

just the grey 

thinning skies 

of clouds, 

my eyes open 

to the morning, 

the first birds 

singing to the east, 

this peace 

of beauty 

of wonder, 

into my life 

to take.

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The Moviegoers 

Strange, 

watching 

listening, 

hidden,

stories 

of other lives, 

forgetting 

our own:

characters 

just like us

taken  

by surprise, 

for do we

live in our 

own story, 

the narrative, 

our tale 

unfolding?

Or, 

in the dreams

of someone

else, 

watching

switching

remotely?

Perhaps

in blindly

blinking,

with 

and through

our 

closing,

our screen 

filled eyes,

do we see 

ourselves

stumbling

inspiring,

creating meaning

in the echoes

of others,

in those hollow

moments 

of our own

humdrum 

lives?

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October, October!

October, 

October! 

The fall 

of summer 

upon thy brows, 

from where 

did Summer fade 

and Springtime 

lose her 

vows?

For along 

the shadowed lanes 

and emptying 

autumn  fields, 

September lies 

for another year, 

sleeping, 

silently 

her dreams

she slowly leaves

to dream.

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First Hints

First hints 

of October, 

the wisps 

of light 

in the early morning 

air,

in dapples 

of age, 

and grey

amidst morning gold

as summer, 

in smudges 

of sky 

remembered, 

her last breath 

for today 

again in light 

and dawn

a treasure, 

to truly

behold. 

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