Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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The Tinder Box Garden

And so begins 

another day, 

of heat and silence, 

already the apple trees 

wilt under the weight 

of the harvest year, 

each full, each heavy, 

with the light 

and warmth 

of the summer sun, 

and here, 

in the cool shade 

of early shadows, 

the first breath 

of the hush and wind, 

whisper, play and falter, 

resting awhile,

upon the crisp 

and wrinkled hands 

of leaves, 

they tremble and fall, 

the weight 

of the blue sky,

too much to bare, 

the thin sliver 

of clouds, stretch 

the early day into possibilities 

across the sun-scorched brown 

of a shrinking earth, 

as a raven flies 

a shriek 

of warning 

over the garden steps, 

the same steps 

that left yesterday’s evening behind,

as the scimitar-moon, 

tilted and turned across 

the glistening heat 

of rooftops, 

but here, 

this morning, 

having slipped like the last remnant 

of a vanquished 

and conquered people, 

the descending stone steps 

seem vacant, 

abstract, 

a short path,

to a forgotten spring, 

each of the flowers 

shrink, nod, dry 

and brittle, 

the hand and heat 

of the morning silence, 

slip, not by chance, 

into numbing press 

of an August day. 

And far below, 

far, 

far below, 

at the edge 

of the empty fields, 

along the narrow lane 

that twists and turns 

beneath the question marks 

of willow, 

the thousand thinning wreaths 

of shimmering blue-silver leaves, 

the dried river bed 

is just a memory 

of the hard stones 

of truth and voices, 

the great thirst 

of an unforgettable flood.

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Here (for July)

I’m sitting, 

here

in silence,

in shadows,

in the soft hush 

the dusk

of early night,

the first

of stars

hanging 

from whispering

trees,

thinking

dreaming

hearing

your voice

missing you

in whispers 

the wind

leaves

in quietude’s

garden,

blossoming

in moonlight,

goodnight,

she sings

through the silence,

goodnight,

goodnight.

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The Memory 

of Trees 

Along

the lane,

and beyond 

the curve

of the rising 

hill,

our trees knot 

and whisper, 

their leaves

arching high

overhead,

their branches 

sway,

the wind, 

soothes

trembles,

and wanders,

between sky, 

cloud 

and 

sea, 

and along 

that beach,

beyond the crest

of the last edge, 

the last curve 

of tides, 

and a distant 

shore,

we walk 

and remember, 

for the time

we thought 

was

in front 

of us,

for we never

listened 

to our footsteps,

and what 

had passed

before.

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Wishing Rain (for August)

Sitting, 

listening,

feeling 

the afternoon wind

carry the sky 

of falling rain, 

like music, 

like memories,

dancing moments 

of thousands,

wishing 

to the hidden 

and stars,

that  I can 

see,

smile 

and laugh,

with you

once again. 

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Silver-Light

Early evening 

and dusk,

the sun slips 

across the thinning 

crepuscular sky,

and beyond 

the silent trees

each leaf 

whispers

a silent hush,

for the first 

of stars

rise 

above

the shadows

of approaching

night,

and all 

is still

all is 

silent

as the distant 

wings

of moon

hint

of August

and the coming

of silver-light

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For Today 

Beautiful 

this morning, 

slow, 

like a good wine, 

to be sipped, 

are these falling 

calendar 

of days, 

for how quickly 

passes time

her sails

and ships

over seas, 

For with life, 

love

and wonder,

these beautiful 

skies

pass so quickly  

away,

so with 

the soft

gentle

reminder 

of waves,

no better

now

to live,

than 

for today.

Dedicated to RDK

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From Dusk to Dawn

And hushed

is this evening, 

the first stars, 

a distant plane 

turning brightly, 

high, 

in the last glimpse 

of this summer sky, 

there’s a whisper 

of distant traffic, 

the final call 

of a gentle wind,  

and so I think 

fondly 

of you, 

this night

and will dream

of the dawn

that seeing you

once again 

that light 

and morning

a kiss of life

will bring.

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The Jewel’s Eye  5

He stopped. As ever he noticed her. The curtain twitch. The shadow behind the fine Edwardian style gauze. The green window frames, gables and gate. He saw the sun glitter off the chimney stack television aerial. Felt Patch bristle as he noticed the cat stop, pause, and clean his paws as if asking for trouble.

Knowing he was.

He hadn’t seen George- not since a long while. And there he was today just turning from rolling down the ramp on his motorised wheel chair. The same one when it had happened. The same low whine of the motor, his irritated yet kindly look as he saw him watching.

He remembered it well. 

Too well. 

He had told the story too many times at school. Until no one had believed him. It was, after all, rather fantastic.

He turned and pulled on the handbrake. The two well worn and modified metal pads pressed reassuringly against the new tyres. He pulled out the newspaper, and his packet of goodness from the canvas bag, whistled to patch and began to walk to George.

He usually placed them both behind the flowerpot on the right hand side, just inside the porch.

As ever, he quickly sniffed the small impeccably wrapped package and enjoyed the earthy smell of the herb he knew to be weed, or hemp.

George watched him closely and beckoned him over with a look that said, ‘she’s looking lad,’ which she was.

It was not far. The road was narrow, even narrower than two years before when it had happened. More cars. More parked cars. Even some of them astride the sidewalk.

Waiting to happen.

It all felt too familiar. 

He saw George’s tacit nod of understanding; his wave back. And then he heard it before he saw it, disbelieved it, before he quickly believed it.

It was above him. 

Everything happened at once. 

Again.

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She watched again. The boy opened the gate, his dog guarding the newspapers, eyes alert, ears keen, listening, looking, waiting for any trouble. The cat was nonchalantly sitting, cleaning her paws in the middle of the road, the morning sun catching her almost orange fur in a glow of incandescence.

He sauntered up the garden path, skipped across the broken paving stones and launched the Daily Mail like a missile through the letter box onto the tiled entrance floor. It skidded across the tiles and ended up, as nearly every morning, tucked and wedged under the clock cabinet just outside of the living room door.

She heard the ‘thunk’ of the closed letter box and his whistle as he slammed the front gate, picked up the cart pulling rope and pulled his load up the hill.

It was all so predictable, familiar-and this morning especially so, as she noticed George opening his door opposite.

He was earlier today, she thought, as she watched him reverse his motorised wheel chair down the temporary-now permanent - wooden ramp and along the straightened garden path to turn and meet the boy.

‘Not unhandsome,’ she thought to herself again, as not for the first time, she looked closely at his  ragged beard, his greying hair, the purposeful look in his eye and the upper body muscles that strained beneath the familiar ragged and ripped blue T shirt.

She noticed the cut off paint flecked Jeans, his boots with laces hanging to the floor. He looked as ever familiar. Too familiar somehow as if she had always known him. A feeling she had had often when looking across the gulf of years and the width of the avenue between them.

She suddenly felt alarm. In her stomach. In a rush of emptiness that left her head and made her gasp involuntarily out loud.

Even the way she pulled back the curtains further and lifted up the net curtain to see the steep incline more clearly felt…repeated.

Again the tingle. This time up her spine and down her legs.

A yearning. For what she didn’t know.

And then she did.

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Under the Walnut Tree

And here 

is the wind, 

whispering 

softly, 

through the fine 

fingers 

of leaves 

and through 

my wandering 

thoughts 

beneath 

the walnut tree, 

for here 

summer rests 

upon the flickering 

shadows 

of trees,

as time 

weaves 

through 

these passing 

moments, 

silently.

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