Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Shadows 

of the moon

Falling asleep, 

alone tonight, 

stars hidden 

behind the moonlight, 

I’m waiting 

for silence, 

footsteps 

across the garden, 

silver 

and bright, 

for it’s colder 

now, 

winter walking, 

along the footpath, 

before him,

the trees 

glisten, 

half-hidden

under the cloak 

of October skies, 

hearing the last 

whispers, 

autumn leaves 

rattling in the wind, 

whispering

of yesterday, 

turns into the dust. 

of shadows

and evening 

softly sighs.

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Radio

Early morning, 

dawn breaking 

across the skies, 

heard the news 

on the radio, 

saw the tears 

in heaven’s eyes,

Hard to believe 

no ones wishing 

anymore, 

a long time coming, 

hope stripped 

from the sacred dark, 

the gods have shut 

their doors.

We’re out

and alone  

here, as far 

and as certain 

we can ever know, 

yet we keep fighting 

for our flags, 

forgetting

who we are, 

lost in politics 

and blindness,

we’re never 

going to grow.

So I tried 

to change 

channels, 

but it’s all 

yesterday’s 

news, today, 

tomorrow, 

this morning, 

politics blinding, 

theirs, not mine, 

shouting, screaming, 

messages

and meanings, 

sound bites 

and blues.

Instead, I stepped 

outside, 

looked out, 

left the thoughts 

of rockets 

of war, 

weapons 

and hate behind, 

saw past the morning, 

into the dawn 

of forgotten light, 

and saw the winter sun, 

and thought 

‘when the planets dead, 

will matter to none.’

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Wood and Smoke 

Wood and smoke, 

heavy with apples, 

summer,

laden with light

light and memories, 

fade upon 

the fallen  

autumn fires, 

of September’s 

silent call,

and leaves.

And, as night 

stretches, 

shadows lengthen, 

high above,

their stars 

etch the heavens

singing, 

silent,

waiting

for the 

winter dawn

to come.

For it is fall

and colder now,

the summer lanes

hidden, 

empty

beneath

the boughs 

and branches

of frosted October

trees, 

waiting, patiently

for daylight

and the slow birth

of the winter 

sun.

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Midnight and Rain

In blustery showers, 

hail,

invisible walls 

of early morning 

grey, 

the heavens 

opened 

at midnight, 

flooded 

and washed 

the world 

of yesterday, 

for outside,

through 

the bedroom window,

beyond 

the garden, 

the orchard, 

across the edges 

of woodland, 

roof 

and pointing spire,

the stars, 

overhead,

part subdued

hidden 

and scattered,

watched 

and waited,

as October 

dowsed

the flames 

of autumns fire. 

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Marching

Through marching, 

lines 

and ranks 

of maize, 

with corners 

and walls 

against 

the falling skies, 

the shadows lengthen 

the coming darkness, 

the battalions 

of winter, 

in regiments 

on the horizon, 

led by forgotten ghosts 

and ragged flags, 

in fallen reasons 

and forgotten whys,   

and above, 

the moon rises, 

blinded in light 

and lunacy, 

a reminder 

of death 

and watching  

war and hate, 

must never 

in the solitary blue 

of life, 

have to be.

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Moon-Song

Above the silence

the forests,

the invisible curves 

of light and fields, 

the empty skies 

of September darkness, 

the coming 

of autumn 

is his light 

revealed, 

for the stars 

are full tonight, 

the hours shorter, 

in the passing 

of days, 

the shadows quiver 

and tremble, 

the wind whispers 

in solace, 

the return of winter, 

the dance 

of ghosts 

before his

midnight veils.

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Orion:

the return of Kings

Slipping into darkness, 

no border, 

no boundary, 

between the black 

and the grey, 

the twilight 

of moments,

forgotten in the closing, 

the avalanche 

of memories, 

just falling away, 

for the bell tower 

is silent, 

the hours strike 

no more, 

the roads closed, 

the houses,

empty, 

simply abandoned 

before the shadows 

claw, 

for the midnight hours 

are lengthening, 

the fall deepens, 

the silence, 

becoming a roar, 

lifetimes in building, 

the return 

of the kings,

no doubters, 

no more. 

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To sleep

To sleep, 

yes, 

at last

to sleep 

windows open,

to watch 

the paling rise 

of autumn’s moon, 

waxing above 

the trees 

and rooftops, 

the stars,

hidden, 

the shadows 

long,

upon the garden, 

yet from midnight, 

the seasons change, 

alas too soon, 

too soon!

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The Hedgehog 

Getting colder now, she walks unsteadily,down the steps, they are steep, but she can manage. 

Huddled in the shadows, sheltered from the blasts of the northeastern wind,she presses against the cobbled stones, the whitewashed wall,and remembers, almost by instinct, the way along the path to the sleep of October. 

Old now, the seasons weighing heavy upon her heart, she feels the heaviness in her limbs, the shallow breaths she must take into the twilight months of the passing year. 

Suddenly the light blinks above her. 

She freezes.

Bristles instantly against the threat. 

She can feel them above. 

Looking down at her huddled form, panting in fear and still, so very still.

The brightness is overwhelming, blinding, against the dark, as harsh as a buzzard’s cry against the wind. 

With an unexpected click, the light vanishes, as quickly as it came and again, the darkness presses into the harder blocks of shadows, as she reaches the bottom stair and for a moment rolls into a ball. 

Feeling herself against herself, she can hold again the warmth of the four other lives within her. 

She shuffles along the path, dry, brittle leaves, chase after her, over take her slow wobbling gait. They chase the emptiness of the hollow wind before her, deeper into the bushes, hedges and abandoned flower beds, deeper again into the autumn garden. 

She stops again, sniffs the moist, cold, damp morning air and smells the first acrid smoke of morning fires, above the trees.

She watches the blue smoke curl in clouds and turns to go deeper between, then behind, the two water butts. They stand empty now, upturned, she smells the pile of logs, leaves and watering cans, the mess of sacks, wood shavings and old fencing posts. 

With a shiver, a sigh, she again gathers herself to herself, wraps herself into a ball of warmth and familiar, and takes the dream of summer to sleep with her.

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I sing of wood and morning

I sing 

of wood 

and morning, 

the beach, 

the skies, 

the waves 

that reach 

and slow 

upon the windswept 

curve 

of shore,

For in the time 

it takes 

for the tides, 

the passing, 

and fall

of days, 

the dawn 

will rise 

in years, 

and walks 

in footsteps 

across 

the sands, 

a hundred, 

no, a thousand 

different ways.

For  all

is a journey

from what 

was

to become,

to what may,

the future memories

of all those 

who have 

passed 

and will pass 

again, 

this way. 

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