Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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The first of Autumn’s Days

Dawn, 

the crouching eyes 

of wings 

and black,  

over the last 

of summer darkness, 

the stars swallowed 

in the emptying,

the  blackness 

of a fading blue, 

and to the west 

and east, 

in front 

of the ragged ships 

of a worn 

and forgotten sky, 

lightening flickers 

and fades, 

flickers and fades, 

crashing in sheets 

of power and steel, 

the metallic thunder 

of igniting fields 

and hedges, 

woodlands 

and rooftops, 

the hidden raptures 

of illumination, 

the shattering 

of shadows, 

the race 

of time and turning, 

the fading memories 

of summer, 

the fallen wings, 

the ravens ravenous, 

remember 

and with rancour 

the birth 

of the first 

of autumn’s days.

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Standing Stones

Empty of sky, 

the morning fields 

are full with mud 

and puddles 

in the early dawn 

and fallen grey, 

clouds drift 

along the horizons 

edge, 

not a bird stirs, 

silence reigns 

upon the kingdom, 

the dulled eyes 

of awakening, 

the night fades 

from dreams 

of tomorrow, 

to the first light 

of today, 

for summers’s gone 

now, hidden 

beyond the first flutter 

of colours, 

the turning golds 

the flames, 

and fires 

of trees, 

and there,

along the pathways, 

through the woodland, 

high in the mists 

of shrouding, 

the first of stars, 

is the yellow birth 

of light, 

the morning, 

rising sun, 

the standing stones 

of ancient times, 

encircle the moments 

of motion, 

September written 

in their shadows, 

turning the tides 

of seasons, 

towards the winter days 

to come.

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Hornet

She first sat 

as a queen,

silhouetted

still against 

the opening dawn, 

upon the window ledge 

the earth eclipsed, 

the moon 

standing, 

summer abandoned

upon the rising,

morning, 

the light

and edge 

behind her.

For it’s colder now,

September, 

motionless 

waiting, 

steepening

behind her frozen form,

as if deciding,

the way of the world,

the hornet turned 

her back 

upon the summer, 

sleeping late 

and cold,

across the mists 

she lifts and leaves,

August left behind,

abandoned,

flying uncertainly,

over the garden lawn.

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The Queen (is dead)

The Queen is dead,

the story written

the final chapter, 

closed,

upon her reign,

for now 

as the world sleeps,

and the stars awaken,

a million candles 

light upon the world,

a reminder 

that all lives pass

those great 

and memorable,

those small

and forgotten, 

all, calls of life

voices of hope,

cries, and despair, 

as the earth turns,

alone and solitary

and turns again,

upon an empty wind.

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Without (the rain)

Into the morning

the darkness, 

the winking puddles, 

the solitary street lamps, 

the perpetual pinpricks 

of falling rain, 

the shadows 

yet to be lifted, 

huddle between houses, 

beyond the line 

of avenue trees, 

summer sleeping 

in the dripping retreat 

of gardens, 

autumn hints, 

in the gentle fall 

of hours, 

the hushed 

and softening silence, 

of falling leaves.

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Mountains

Mountains 

of morning 

chasing clouds, 

great chasms, 

of a deepening 

September’ sky, 

the sun blinks 

behind the dawn, 

watching, 

waiting, 

the season’s changing 

beneath

her beacon eye, 

and below,

far, far below,

in the town, 

the hurry 

of streets, 

stretching, 

awakening, 

the blinking lights, 

the first rush 

of impatient traffic, 

an old man 

sits, sleeps, 

dreams, quietly, 

upon the bench, 

outside the church, 

the tower chiming,

time, 

behind him, 

hidden,

into the morning, 

echoing through

the hurry 

of his years, 

the memory 

of yesterdays, 

the nudge 

of remembering 

moments, 

still, 

silent, 

echoing 

in the emptiness,

between the hollow 

walls

and faceless 

buildings

the gathering 

of shadows

a faltering 

of sunlight

his time, 

closing

knotting slowly 

into a fist

into the last

moments

of his passing

of hours.

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City

In  the stifling 

August heat, 

above the city,

the history,

the canyons 

of forgotten places,

and beyond the empty 

names, 

the emblematic idiom 

of pointing fingers, 

the high rise 

of buildings,

the tipping 

and tearing, 

of a restless wind

cut, 

sharp, 

into invisible pieces,

a spirit arises, 

from beneath

the metallic fingers,

of high

construction cranes. 

For there is 

an undiscovered 

an empty sky, 

high and above, 

the spiralling wings 

of life

as three buzzards 

drift, 

turn and call

turn and call 

with eyes of steel

upon the stupefied traffic, 

strangled, 

stopped,

deep in the concrete 

rivers locked and frozen

in a grimace 

of anger 

of fear 

and far again 

below,

Winter pounces.

Waiting.

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Season’s Dawn 

Dawn beckons 

behind the curtain, 

pulling the sky

to one side, 

for rain is forecast,

the barometer’s falling

and morning whispers

to the rising 

winter tide.

For autumn’s coming,

September creases 

with scattered rags, 

of storm 

and cloud,

the dawning confidence 

of a late summer sky 

wrapped in mists,

river ghosts, 

and harvest shrouds

For whilst the swallows 

have yet to gather,

they fly lower,

and lower, 

feeding on the sunlight,

they scream together 

at the sun, 

‘don’t hide, 

don’t hide’

And above their wings

there is waxing 

of moonlight, 

the silver cup

of a fragile dawn,

for there are days 

left to wonder, 

the chill and wind 

of October, 

-can wait

in summers pocket, 

for the last 

of heat,

and summer warmth. 

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Equinox 

Tremulous

is the sky 

this morning, 

light winds 

from a whispering  

west, 

the weather 

changing, 

the clouds, 

in waves, 

tides 

of  September, 

equinox 

pending,

summer 

reclining 

‘rest,’

she whispers

again,

to her daughter

of seasons,

‘rest, rest.’

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A Fallen Wind

The clock tower points 

at the early dawn, 

the face 

of hours 

glowing in bronze 

upon the opening day, 

and below, 

the town awakens, 

shutters, 

doors, 

windows, 

opening eyes, 

stretching the shadows

after the warm night 

of restless sleep, 

and above 

the glowing rooftops, 

the silhouettes 

of chimneys, 

aerials, 

the waves 

of drooping 

telephone wires, 

a myriad 

of wings 

reach and fall 

and reach and fall 

again, 

ever upwards 

in eddies 

and spirals 

higher and higher, 

into the rising embrace 

of dawn, 

time taken, 

time thrown 

against the hours 

of a fallen wind.

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