Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Rivers

In the silence 

of morning, 

through the tunnels 

of rain, 

the clouds 

of darkness, 

the hidden whispers 

of winds, 

turning, 

resting, 

moaning 

in the sighs 

of falling leaves, 

and trees, 

if you stop, 

and listen, 

step away 

from 

the hurried lights, 

the moving, 

racing chase 

of the dash 

to seize the day,

to look 

behind 

the shadows

upon the slow 

forgotten walk 

of footsteps,

the climb

to view

the open spaces,

the rooftops

of early autumn,

chimney fires

and beyond

the long fingers 

of dawn

upon the crouching

hidden hills, 

you can see

the opening paths,

for rivers

of life, 

change

and motion,

futures 

beckoning

being born

to be.

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As I waited

As I waited 

for the words 

to come, 

under the great dome 

of evening sky, 

I listened to the silence, 

looked out 

to the blue 

and light 

falling to silver 

in the fading west, 

the first stars 

were heavenwards, 

the trees silhouetted, 

etched upon 

the twilight, 

hieroglyphs 

of the gloaming

lending me a clue, 

to look above,

for then

a swift 

and silent 

pair of wings, 

flickered across 

the mottled garden 

the hushed silence 

of evening grass, 

a bat, flew

across the shadowed darkness, 

across and beyond 

the stand 

of trees, 

a dog barked once, 

the distant bells 

struck nine, 

I waited again 

for the words, 

and at last 

they came

beyond the rim 

of the horizon,

through the ever 

of turning 

the circle 

of time

beneath

this wandering, 

changing, 

forever sky.

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Magic and Moonlight

Magic and Moonlight,

mists before the rising dawn, 

the skies glisten 

in quicksilvers, 

the shadows steepen 

in sculptures, 

the wind lifts the light 

of morning, 

caressing the memories 

of summer,  

laughter 

and music, 

echoing gently 

across the whispering leaves 

of September, 

the saddening silence 

of winter’s call, 

For although the days 

are shorter now, 

the hours chiming 

across the emptying fields, 

the stars wheel,

turn across the heavens, 

beyond the fullness 

of the harvest moon, 

and as the lanes lie 

hushed, quiet 

and peaceful 

in the footsteps 

and travel 

of yesteryears, 

I will continue 

to walk this way

and let the flowers 

of summer nod 

and pass

as time slips 

behind the morning

dew, 

and August, 

in tears,

just walks away…

walks away

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Sunday Rain

A thousand 

upon thousand 

droplets of sky, 

dancing, 

falling, 

dripping, 

in single 

silences, 

echoing 

from leaves 

that tremble 

and shake, 

filling the air 

with their floods 

and voices, 

overhead,

a hurry 

of birds 

flicker 

and tumble, 

dipping 

and turning 

against 

the blustery call 

the invisible wind, 

and higher 

still higher, 

the grey flotillas 

of clouds 

deepen,

and drift 

across 

the silver 

mists, 

hanging 

in veils 

across, 

the woodlands, 

the folds 

and valleys 

of earth 

and landscape 

ploughed,

since September 

harvested,

their farms 

and outhouses 

huddled 

in shelters,

dips, 

and meanders 

of rivers 

and towns, 

glistening,

with rooftops 

and blinking 

windows, 

as the sun, 

at last, 

glimpses 

in sunlight 

and morning 

a sail arising 

between islands 

of blue 

behind 

the dissipating 

wreaths

of clouds.

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Caves

A southern wind blows,
 beneath the caves,
clouds and stars 
of an awakening September sky, 
for there’s rain 
in the air, 
the dry leaves, 
whisper,
their branches, 
old,
stiff, 
worn,
rattle 
and rub, 
in creaks 
and groans, 
the woodlands, 
toss and turn, 
restless,
as the dawn lifts 
the first tatters 
and rags 
of blue,
above the distant edges, 
and far away, 
beyond the folds 
and hollows, 
the river and valleys, 
the villages and towns, 
tucked away, 
still hidden in slumbers, 
their streets and empty, 
streetlights flickering, 
shop windows blank, 
grinning, mutely 
as the first splatters 
of showers fall, 
on the dry curbs 
and sidewalks, 
a gust another, 
and then another, 
a flurry 
of litter rolls 
against the gaping,
the missing teeth 
of alleyways 
that stretch 
into further shadows 
and the thick black 
stubborn darkness 
between apartment blocks,
the wind strengthens,
 again, throwing the rain 
in scatters 
of diamonds, 
hail and stones 
against windows, 
flailing the roofs 
of cars,
in a metallic din
as the air becomes 
a heavy roar 
of water, 
that dashes and floods 
down gutters, 
falls, 
sprays 
and cascades 
deep into gullies 
and cracks,
splitting, 
the struggling morning 
into rivers 
of tides 
and the dull, 
chasing reflections 
of morning grey.   
And above, 
at last, 
at last the sun lifts 
her fingers,
 across the dawning threads 
of sky, 
the ragged, 
ripped, 
torn 
and tumbling, 
banks 
of cloud 
and tears 
away 
the last storms 
of an unforgiving night,
and brings the first breath 
of life 
to the cave 
of life and living,  
and another 
opening day.

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Wishing for (Dawn)

Wishing 

for morning, 

lights on the hill, 

sleep, 

calling me 

homeward, 

waiting until, 

for how soft 

is the rain, 

falling 

through this dusk, 

the afterglow  

the last 

of today, 

across 

the gardens, 

hushed,

with  blackbirds 

singing 

in solitudes,

and shadows,

since you went 

away, 

for its so quiet, 

just the church, 

the bells, 

chiming blindly 

the first hours 

of night, 

wishing for dawn 

to awaken 

to see you, 

the first breath 

of morning 

and of light.

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Just is.

No!

I’m not joking,

It is true!

You can’t 

wear it, 

carry it, 

lose it, 

nor tell it, 

put it back, 

or forward, 

plan it, 

you certainly can’t

change it,  

share it, 

waste it, 

forget it 

or even 

predict it, 

or speed it 

up, 

nor slow it 

down, 

or save it, 

no more, 

or less 

than 

you can hold 

the wind, 

but within it 

we live, 

play, 

work, 

and pass 

away, 

relative 

it is, 

moments 

cherished, 

and lost,

never to be

given,

taken,

or thrown

away,

for time 

just is

this day.

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Evening Rain

The sky is deepening, 

dull, 

grey 

to evening black, 

sinking into a world 

of shadows, 

not a star blinks, 

and the moon remains hidden, 

behind the clouds 

chasing the tides of sky, 

to the winds of the west 

and back, 

And below

the earth is still, 

streets deserted, 

shop windows closed, people hurry,

into their inverted lives, 

Summer dreams abandoned, 

their cars parked 

like litter, 

upon the homeward bound, 

the destination road, 

and for awhile, 

in between-times, 

a silence settles,

into somnambulant emptiness, 

hanging invisibly 

from the hollow limbs 

of gesticulating trees, 

only the wind stirs 

the memories, 

the summer fading in whispers, 

a cacophony of voices, 

behind the motionless offices 

and shuttered restaurants, 

time is left,

in the fading colours, 

the voices 

of laughter, 

the silent patterns, 

the clouds 

of leaves.

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Just one moment 

From nothing, 

to something,

the wind blew 

in a gust 

of blue, 

warmth 

and late evening 

light, 

and so began 

the dance

the dried, 

brittle dance 

of leaves 

and July, 

as she fell, 

and danced 

again

and again,

in the slow silence 

of motion,

in the remembrance

of spring,

the path 

turned

and led me 

deeper 

into the land

of high hedges,

apple trees,

laden 

in the passing

for with the dance, 

of hours, 

days

the shortened months 

to come

the approaching

shadows 

of a falling night

‘farewell,’ 

whispered the evening

and listened

to no one. 

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I wrote in the summer garden

I wrote 

‘in the summer garden, 

the light was golden, 

the air, 

clear and pure, 

the dawn 

lifted the skies 

towards the heavens, 

time turned 

upon the tides 

as I listened 

to the waves 

break upon the distant shore,’

And then I stopped

and wondered, 

did it matter at all?

And then continued,

with these words

and watched 

the summer fall,

‘In the east 

gathered a storm

in clouds 

of grey and black

with hammers 

of thunder 

lightning hissing

and a thousand eyes

red, aflame

and abandoned 

humanity

looking scared 

looking back,’

and then I paused

for a butterfly 

had alighted

in the colours 

of blossoming,

flowers 

of morning sky,

and I asked myself

the question 

holding back 

in mourning,

‘Why?Why?’

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