Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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It could be 

anywhere 

and here, 

the sky, 

the hush, 

the silence, 

the end 

of a summer’s day, 

the lapping 

of waters, 

laughter 

from neighbours, 

the distant bark 

of a dog, 

the final song 

of a blackbird, 

atop the afterglow, 

the fire-lit tips 

of trees, 

in the last clouds 

like islands, 

the mists 

along the valleys,

fragrance 

of night, 

the coming 

of stars

and sleep

another dream,

another life

for today.

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Watching the Wind

Warm is the sunlight, 

sitting in the garden, 

watching the wind 

ruffle through 

the old apple trees, 

the fruit ripening,

time passing 

slowly blossoming 

in flowers, 

listening, 

so softly,

through summer’s 

passing leaves.

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The Jewel’s Eye  (3)

George watched. Or, rather he waited. He saw the cat, the boy, the cart and the dog. He had slept in his wheel chair all night. His navy binoculars hanging heavily around his neck. His bottle of whiskey one quarter empty. The pain still dulled in his legs. His head throbbed in rushes of blood pressure. It was low again. He knew it. And still he waited. 

He saw the curtain flutter opposite. On time. Exactly. She would never be ready.But two years were worth waiting for.

He glanced at the newspaper that would be delivered by the boy in six minutes exactly.

John checked his timer on his mobile. Watched the seconds flicker down. It was almost the same. It needed to be exactly as it was.

The sun light, the time, the wind speed. The length of shadows. Exactly. Everyone within the event, had be connected. Those not, or had never been, kept out of the way.

Each to their own. He had made precautions. Elaborate. Secret.Carefully planned. No one must intervene.

Every variable kept to a minimum of risk outcomes. It was not about time, it was about timing. If he could control events-enough of them-he might have a chance to slip through. The cat didn’t matter. The dog absolutely did.

And the boy? He was fortunate he was still delivering newspapers.

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The Jewel’s Eye  (2)

She stretches. Yawns.It’s a little after half past five. The house is quiet, still. Upon the mantelpiece, her mother‘s clock ticks against the hour. She’s fallen asleep in the arm chair again. Although the curtains are open, it’s dark in the living room. The massive furniture from her mother’s past haunts the room in shadows and drawers, memories stuffed in all possible corners, crannies and shelves. But not hers. She’s standing now, stretching again, a little cold, a little stiff, her body aching more as the years race by. Her dreams still clinging to her memories, so real again, she thinks to herself, so full with feelings and yet, and yet…She reaches for her glasses, on the nest of tables, next to her phone, her book, the thimble of glass, her nightcap from the evening before, still smelling of the brandy she sipped just before she dozed off. The radiator is on she noted, and although it is July, she appreciates the dull, weak warmth of the mellow heat beneath her prematurely arthritic hands.

Her mother sleeps in late these days, her carers come at nine, she knows, and so smiles with a mixture of relief and glee, as she shuffles in bare feet, across the threadbare carpet towards the curtains and nets of gauze that filter the outside light from coming too strongly inside- and allow her to see over the front garden, beyond the red brick wall, to the crouching cars, parked, in huddles of glistening metal, chrome and color, half on the sidewalks, half on the street that steeply climbs to the parish church at the top of the hill. 

There he is. She sees him every morning, pulling his newspaper cart, rain, cloud, sun or shine, delivering newspapers, magazines, a few specials, carefully wrapped parcels  that he knows he shouldn’t know what’s inside, but she suspects he does, slowly almost cautiously up the hill.

She detests his dog. Sitting like a canine king upon the canvas bags stuffed with the irreverent news and inevitable gossip of the day.

She pulls back the curtains, pushes her glasses further back up her crooked nose and looks again as her neighbours cat trots across his path, pauses to stare as the two continue their climb over towards her mothers garden gate, and then continues to George’s across the road. She remembers in a rush of recollection the night that was two years ago, before. 

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The Jewel’s Eye (1)

It’s just after six, most of the earth sleeping, still. There’s a hush, a change, a whisper of wind, in the dappled hands, the flurry of motion in the trembling shadows of leaves. 

The sun has just lifted, the early skies in a summer of days, a shimmering light and the jewel’s eyes of shining blue. 

A few cars in the distance,snake their way, along the curving lanes, under the shoulders of raised fields, between the rolling curves and hidden blinds of hedges.

But here below the roof window, tilted against the heat and early blinks of morning light, a single, solitary cat stretches herself along the edge of the slipping shadows of dawn.

And yawns, as she sees, as every morning, the paper boy lolloping up the hill, pulling a trolly full with newspapers, magazines. 

And his dog, with ears flat, tongue out, panting softly, curled on top, lazily viewing the windows of houses, all like eyelids, shut, tight, against the truth of dawn.

Theres a smell of freshly made bread, coffee, mixed with the heavy invisible draping of flowers, blossoms and fragrances, the earth having exhaled under the stars and close of a passing night. The prepares for heat and haze. It’s going to be hot - a real summers day.

Quickly, without stealth or ostentation, the cat walks across the path of the boy, cart and his dog, knowing full well, in that intuitive way that cats do, what will happen next.

It does.

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Travelin' Light

Leaving my bags behind

and takin' the road,

I'm leaving the past behind me,

and traveling back home.

The sky's above my head,

the road's winding wide,

I've given up pretending

that my past can decide.

There's a wind right behind me,

and horizons to discover,

the road is my friend

my shadow, and my brother.

I've got time to be thinking

and time to pass the day,

the answers to living,

are just footsteps away.

Friends are believing

that the fates can decide,

but I'm taking my chances,

that my luck won't decide.

I'm not over the hill,

nor wasting my time,

I'm on a journey to believe in

and I'm doing just fine.

There's no start, no ending

nor an end point in mind,

just the jigsaw of memory,

and what I'm leaving behind.

No signs nor distances,

to lead me astray,

The road leads me forwards,

just passing through each day.

I'm letting go of myself,

to stop feeding the past,

embracing the present

as no future can last.

Taking each moment

each breath, in delight,

the stars still guide me,

and not only at night.

So farewell from the journey

as I'm preparing to go,

the ending is a beginning 

I wanted you to know.

No journeys are lost,

no discoveries can be found,

without first trusting the journey,

knowing your homeward bound.

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Lastly 

The last blackbird sings, 

echoes, 

quietly,

across the late evening skies, 

the night calls the dusk 

across in silence,

the last of daylight, 

the afterglow 

of goodbyes, 

and as the shadows lengthen, 

the hours running homewards, 

to the end 

of this summer’s day, 

no words can bridge the future 

until 

and when,

you can return again 

from far away.

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After the Rain 

In the early morning 

of July and grey, 

after the rising storms 

of summer night, 

the stars have fallen 

in their thousands, 

from the dusk 

and drought 

of evening light, 

for after the rain 

the cloud washed streets, 

under the dripping green 

of weeping trees, 

the sky blinks 

in puddles 

of tears,

for June has taken 

her blossom 

and flowers

and sits still, 

silent 

in the empty park

and quietly, 

softly, 

slowly leaves. 

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War Crow

A single crow 

barks across 

the dawn 

the sunrise, 

as the world 

continues,

dreaming,

for all is hushed, 

all is sleeping 

all is still, 

for in the returning

shadows 

of sunlight, 

with the first glance 

of awakening,

morning opens 

the coming shadows 

of another 

summer day.

but as the first, 

the breath 

of wind, 

waits 

and wafts,

the smoke  

then stirs 

through 

memories

in the awakening 

crowns of trees,

a flood of gold

passes through 

the fingers 

of the fall 

of night, 

losing her way

For the hope 

in the dawn 

and chorus, 

suddenly stops 

in a flurry, 

a cloud

of wings, 

a migration 

of birds,

lifts and leaves

for in the not too distant 

futures,

in the call 

the coming of thunder 

the earth itself

may stop, 

and turn away, 

away

from the future wars 

of maybe,

for Europe is dulled 

and dreaming 

and bleeds

for another day.

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A  short piece about stepping out, exploring new experiences, to stand  upon  ‘new grass,’ under a blue sky, with a lake in front of you, a busy, bustling city behind…

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