Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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The Rim

Cycling through 

the last dawn 

of August, 

the hidden shadows, 

the empty fields 

and ripples 

of silence, 

beneath the wings 

of migrating skies, 

the whispers 

of summer 

in the last stands 

of high standing corn, 

the smudges 

of light, 

across the bands 

of grey, 

above the forest edges, 

it’s quiet, 

so quiet 

and still, 

I imagine 

so I am alone, 

in a world 

of the emptiness 

of echoes,

the passing 

of memories, 

in the trembling hands 

of trees, 

forgetful 

and forgotten, 

slipping beyond the rim 

of daylight, 

deeper into the morning 

deeper,

into the stubble 

of fields, 

deeper, 

into the roots and earth, 

the closing dreams 

of another winter, 

the hibernation 

in the turning lamp 

of seasons.

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The Memory Days

There are shrouds 

of mists, 

dapples 

and greys, 

the drizzle 

of clouds, 

droplets 

of morning rain, 

for with a shrug 

of wind 

through the 

apple trees,

brings September 

among the branches, 

the last 

of August, 

the first 

of Autumn, 

the gentle decline, 

the memory 

of days.

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September Golds 
and Morning Grey

The first hints 

of September, 

through wisps 

of light 

in the still 

fall

of early morning 

air,

in the dapples 

of age, 

and grey

amidst morning 

golds

as summer, 

in bouquets 

of sky 

remembered

in dawn 

still smiling

fragrant

beautiful 

standing there. 

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Apple Crow

Upon the apple tree

a single Crow, 

barks,

drily, 

across the crowds 

of standing,

rustling corn, 

as wounded 

the sun, 

lifts the red 

of morning, 

empty, 

alone 

and forlorn.

For into the dark 

the silent places, 

where shadows call

August, 

left alone, 

lies weeping, 

lost 

in dreams 

of past 

the timely sage,

the coming fall

As summer’s 

leaving, 

the days 

slipping 

slowly 

across the hours

the settling dust, 

the skeletal mourning 

of muttering leaves, 

the earth turns, 

and time passes,

he cries again,

the crow,

as he must,

as he must.

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Waiting (for rain)

The silence grows, 
thicker, 
steepens back 
and back again, 
to a ragged subdued, 
event laden sky, 
on the fields, 
the winds, 
rest, 
subdued, 
dry and waiting, 
the earth pauses, 
as if still, 
waiting,
flies buzz impatiently, 
hornets pierce the westerly edge 
of the mown emptiness 
of corn and grey, 
distances eclipsed 
by the flattened growl 
of distant thunder, 
it’s so very still, 
the bells of church and tower, 
time and season, 
steal across the steel grey grass,
yellowed, 
fraught, 
drought with exhaustion,
exhumed the last dry corpse 
of summer. 
And still no rain, 
just presence and heat 
of silence, 
and yet, 
and yet,
 there is a coolness, 
a ripple, 
a subtle breath 
of something stirring, 
lifts and pulls and gathers, 
pulls and gathers 
from the empty east 
to an expectant west,
the  heavy pressed,
deepening wall 
of cloud, 
until at last 
the droning deep throb 
of a distance monoplane 
ripples the edge 
of silences 
and tips the sky 
and tumbles the greater 
lessening skies 
into the first,
the heavy drops 
of falling rain.

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Clover

The scent  

of evening clover, 

soft, 

upon the evening airs, 

summer closing 

gracefully, 

the day 

hushed, 

the night falling 

swiftly, 

upon the terrace stairs

for there

are lights, 

and laughter

here, 

the tinkling 

of glasses

the afterglow 

paling 

as twilight 

gently,

slowly falls

shadows lengthen,

stars whisper

silence, 

silence,

as a last blackbird

scurries 

and across 

the garden 

calls

And it’s  beautiful 

this night,

the first 

of seasons 

September

rising

Orion, high

above 

the edges 

of a sleeping 

slumbering world 

so stepping 

deeper

into the garden, 

under a flood 

of constellation 

skies,

I stood awhile 

and listened 

remembering

weeping softly 

how time 

and wings 

of passing

had taken you

dear August 

from the summer 

of my morning skies.

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A day of crystal blue 

and thin, fragile 

morning light, 

a single star hangs 

in the heavens, 

the last watcher 

of a passing night.

For the wind,

is soft and gentle 

passing through 

the brittle hands 

of leaves, 

their trees bending, 

moaning softly 

in the memory 

laden breeze.

For August 

her lanes and fields, 

empty of summer, 

are passing ever 

so quickly now, 

as shadows steepen, 

changing skies 

hint and beckon

at the coming tithe

of autumn’s grey

and the keening steel

of September’s plough

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A dream of flight, wings, skies and change after observing two Red Kites in flight.

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I never would 

have thought, 

that time 

would pass 

in dances

of silver 

and in gold, 

the minutes 

like hours 

and days 

like prophecies 

unforetold, 

for tonight 

the moon 

is slipping,

away 

from the eastern 

sky, 

chasing dreams 

of a summer’s day, 

for she left him

and alone

did time 

without saying

farewell

and goodbye.

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Mr. Moonlight

I mean, really, who does he think he is? Mr.Romantic? Time he was brought back to earth for he’s up there again, you know, changing his face from a grin, to a smile, to a grimace and then doing his disappearing act again. I’ve seen it too many time, slipping and sliding across the sky, aloof, the slight ironic tilting his head to one side as if saying, ‘hey, look at me, a bare reflection of myself,’ expecting everyone to laugh and not miss the sun, you know, and then to simply hide for most of the time with that changeover rabbit, face, it’s really me in the sky thing, well…maybe we should just hope for cloud and rain. I mean it’s pure audacity really, and an outrage for the stars who get swept by his irrefutable presence every time away. 

Of course he tries during the day, winking at the sun, beaming weakly as the clouds try and fail to cover his blushes as he tries to impress in the light and dreams of sun, sea and blue.

For Orion, it simply won’t do, so he climbs down below the horizon for a while. Cassiopeia, just whines and weeps sending, showers of tears across the mid August and November skies.

No, really, it’s time to rethink how we look at him and how he looks at himself. It’s all reflection, narcissistic stuff, I mean the whole sky just pales when he’s around-and what a relief when he goes elsewhere, slips too far below the hills and disappears for days. The black bejewelled sparkling sky of lights and silver just shimmer with joy and de-light.

So, now that he’s back waxing and then for sure waning again as he exits stage left across the south and western skies, let’s rethink the moon, not as a romantic skeletal beam of love, light and ivory, but instead as a disc of dubious grimacing every month, one that is no longer a face, a rabbit  and everyone else’s fantasy in between, rather as a peel or slice of potato, ingloriously separated from the one we stand on, a dull reminder that he jumped the pot when everything was boiling nicely to rescue his own skin from being made like our own.

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