Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Afterwards (the still life of trees)

After the rain, 

I walked 

finding home 

in the hidden dark, 

the lane was empty, 

the houses silent, 

their windows shut, 

trees dripped 

in front gardens, 

nodding

in the shadows 

of streetlights 

as I walked, 

quietly, 

slowly, 

into the past. 

The earth, 

at last,

had exhaled, 

the thunder 

had cleared 

the evening skies, 

the dream, 

of rain 

simply,

no more, 

just a fragrance 

a scent 

simple, 

and complex, 

light and dancing,  

in the heaviness, 

the storm passed press 

of a sleeping, 

slumbering,

fertile earth. 

And as I followed 

the curve, 

the bend 

of an old country lane, 

the moon was there, hanging, 

a lantern, 

through the chaperoning whispers 

of the forgotten wind, 

the gentle conversations 

of a thousand,

a thousand-thousand leaves, 

I waited,

for the truth 

of the evening,

rested, 

in the beckoning hands 

and the trembling 

of multitudes 

the still life

of trees.

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Waterfall, waterfall

listening to your 

warning voices

of the coming flood, 

waterfall, waterfall,

I would silence them

if I could

for the skies grow darker,

and it’s not for today

for the flood will come

‘don’t wait, don’t wait 

for them,’

they murmur,

‘for the future is written

in the waves

of another day,’

And as above

the birds sing,

from silence 

to silence

and the close 

of dusk,

the river stops

suddenly, 

and chokes itself

beneath

the trees 

and leaves 

hanging

for the future, 

it won’t wait

can’t wait, 

but it must!

they sing

It must!

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As the three invisibly watched each other, the three events happened simultaneously. For a second time, George noticed it first…

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The Death of Books

She wrote to me 

about the death 

of books, 

I didn’t understand, 

until I read 

what I had written

with my very own hand 

for then I saw 

my words, 

empty, 

without life 

upon the page,

and realised the loss 

of imagination, 

is the symptom

of wisdom

deceased, 

at any age.

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A Thousand Whispered Goodbyes 

Gone are the stars, 

the summer airs 

of June 

and July, 

for August 

he waits, 

September beckons, 

time wanders, 

aimlessly, 

holding 

the lantern moon, 

searching for answers, 

hidden in 

the trembling forests

and in

a thousand 

whispered

goodbyes.

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The Calling

Calling 

the geese 

across an autumn 

sky, 

dreams the summer 

of August, 

sleeping 

stupefied, 

for the blossom, 

the nectar, 

the droplets 

of morning dew, 

sunlight 

awakens 

in promises, 

promises 

that spring 

never knew.

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Still (another one)

Suddenly it became more than me. The silence. As if pressing against this time from all sides with waves of when. Not a whisper of a breeze, not a sound but that of the flight of a last bird, swooping, diving, skimming the last of daylight with her wings from a slumbering earth. And so I looked up, saw the orange afterglow, the last of high summer skies. I watched and waited, breathed the last hush and perfumes of a hot summers day, saw the stillness, the proud, taut, anchored height of evening’s trees, blessed in shadows and hints of starlight, and then with a clap, a shuttered window, a reflection of sunlight, a flickering motion to the first drops of a falling night, the dusk swept my thoughts away from me and I left my life to there from here and welcomed the embrace of the river that flooded the caves, caverns and soundless echoes of my soul.

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Roar

The house 

shook, 

roof trembled, 

rain battered 

slates lashed

with the hard pain 

of an emptying sky,

inside

cowering

sheltering

blinking

beneath,

the windows 

rattled, 

weeped, 

reflected back 

the blue black

blindness 

of night 

no more 

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An apple,

too early, 

rolling down, 

before me, 

along summer’s

lane, 

to where 

do you race 

dear summer?

where lies July 

now forgotten, 

through 

this darkened

window pane?

For all 

is forgiven, 

the heat, 

the sun

the hard 

baked summer 

and earth, 

so do, please, 

come back 

and whisper, again

through the trees

and lift 

the moon 

heavenwards

the swallows higher

once again

each 

of nature’s music

loud and colourful 

once more

in natures beauty 

to be heard

For the hour 

is now August 

earlier, 

colder 

the nights 

have become

drawing 

the early evenings 

to a hush 

of dusk 

and closed, 

the first 

of spiders

across the garden

woven

autumn nets

have begun

But above, 

in clearer, 

brighter 

still-summer

stars

wishing forever

was less than  just 

a thought away,

I can dream

once again

of tomorrow 

another turn,

of a pale blue earth

another turn 

towards the coming

of day

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Pine resin 

and morning, 

fragrances 

of early dawn, 

the moon slipping 

in silver, 

across the forest 

edges of light, 

for hushed 

are the last stars 

in stillness, 

and the whispering 

farewell 

of night.

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