Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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3 Red Kites

The first followed me, 

lifted me away 

from my self, 

split the seed 

of sky, 

rattled the clouds, 

shook the thaw 

of thunder,

chased the moon 

hanging 

from the bracelet 

of stars,

and skipped away

from the night,

beneath the trees,

and hurried,hidden,

across the dawn,

above the forest 

and left the path behind,  

for the opening door 

of day.

The second, 

swooped from the side, plunged, called, 

and collided with the memory and eddies 

of the first, 

mirrored and collapsed 

the wind, 

wrapped it,

into empty puddles 

punched,

the deep grey blue 

of morning sky 

and dived,

to be swallowed whole 

by the hollow shadows,

that ran from the first hints of the stentorian voice 

of the summer sun.

The third,

was the largest, 

with wings measured 

in miles across 

the sinking woven, 

waiting earth, 

born in creams 

and browns 

and rivers and towns stretching, 

under the blinking patterns of life, 

far and further, 

in the burning dawn, 

the shrinking world 

below.

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When we leave 

each other

this place,

to go away,

on our journeys,

perhaps 

we will return,

to each other

once again.

But for now, 

for now,

for those of us 

who will leave,

let us take nothing

nothing away,

save the memories

of us

of a you 

and a me, 

an us,

that was 

this time

and for those 

of you,

who stay behind, 

to belong here,

between the walls,

along the corridors,

in the footsteps 

that we will leave,

where we used to walk,

remember us well,

not for who we were,

but for what 

we have done,

for from here, 

we leave 

this room, 

this place,

this here

and now,

our paths 

are no longer 

our own,

to walk upon 

together,

for some of us

have chosen 

another 

not better,

just a different way,

so open the doors,

open the windows,

after we have gone,

let the fresh new air,

blow in,

let not the dust

settle from our feet,

for after we leave,

the shadows 

will still lengthen,

along the playground wall

whether we stay 

in a place,

as beautiful as this,

or decide 

to move on,

for the blackbird 

will still call 

at dawn,

at dusk,

and sing 

of time to come, 

and that 

which has passed

for time trickles 

still further,

through the hourglass,

in the great hurry 

of days

from what was then

to what is now

and what is to come,

the clock 

will still tick, 

silently,

after we’ve gone,

so listen, 

and learn,

hear now,

follow outside

the sound

of children’s voices,

the dapples 

of sunlight 

across their sunlit faces,

for their laughter  

is tickling still,

in the warm

summer air.

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His empty sky 

Listening to the last 

of summer birds call, 

across the distance, 

the fading rush 

of the evening homeward 

drive, 

the hurry

of life times, 

dulled in the midsummer heat, 

trapped in metal 

and glass, 

immune from the skyline, 

the sinking splendor 

of a declining sun, 

for here 

only silence grows, 

thick, 

as the cicadas regular staccato, 

tick and hum, 

tick and hum, 

the air trembles, 

heavy with perfume, 

a crow barks overhead, 

a motorcycle grumbles 

into the last dusk 

of evening darkness, 

a last blackbird, 

fusses in the hedges, 

for tonight’s the night, 

the last 

of his days, 

there’s laughter 

from the neighbours, 

glasses empty 

and refilled, 

the smoke and tease 

of barbecue, 

fills the heady air, 

stories told, 

egos lost, 

and found, 

and found again, 

misfortunes 

and successes mingle 

in the afterglow 

an afterglow 

that suffuses the rim 

of the forests, 

steeped in heat 

and silence, 

a distant plane arrows 

across the naked sky, 

a great scratch 

of orange 

upon the last eternal, 

the enamel 

of blue, 

the conversation, 

like waves, 

lulled into bells 

and silence, 

a distant church 

chimes the last, 

the lengthening hour, 

and then a cry, 

a shriek, 

a dropping 

of glasses, 

a silence rushes,

thickly into the gap 

of disbelief, 

one moment to the next: 

all is sudden, 

shattered 

and still. 

A body has slipped 

from life, 

still and warm 

to the stone hard

heat and floor.

and above, 

just a glimpse, 

a crease, 

a hint 

upon the highest line 

of hills, 

the moon lifts blindly, 

an eye upturned, 

to the first stars 

of an empty sky.

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Into

Into the dawn 

and darkness, 

for the sun 

has slipped 

sidewards 

and has lost 

his way, 

the earth

shudders

to a halt,

faltering

upon 

a needle,

for time 

has stopped,

the hours

not moving,

since summer 

left, 

and 

went away.

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Thunder 

With all the windows open, 

the sky pressed 

and shuddered, 

the dull thud 

and grumble 

of thunder, 

shaking the room 

upon which I stood, 

and just as I had thought 

to move, 

a flash 

of lightening 

split the roof, 

the heavens above

my head, 

so I slammed 

the window 

against the roar 

of rain, 

and awoke 

from my dream, 

as soon 

as I could

instead.

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Wind

Blustery, 

invisibly pouring 

sunlight 

in overflowing cups 

and floods 

of golden, 

heavenly blue 

and dreaming

summer skies 

blowing life,

in melodies 

in whispers 

across

a garden

of silent flowers

nodding heads

and courtesies, 

in mock surprise. 

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Wished

Beauty kisses, 

lightly, 

the early skies 

of summer dawn, 

the sun rises 

above a dreaming earth, 

another day 

is slowly born, 

and so I look 

up, 

and wish 

from the morning sky, 

a heaven 

of falling stars, 

each a blessing 

of blossom 

of peace and hope, 

to rid the world 

of pain and war

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The Hollow

Empty 

are the roads, 

the cars, 

the shop windows, 

the streets 

and alleyways 

that led to the old stone church 

at the top 

of the hill, 

even the avenue 

of trees 

are abandoned 

by the wind, 

for solitary stands 

beside silence 

and all 

is shut

all is still

And as the  

shadows slip 

from the shoulders 

of darkness, 

into the blindness 

of the approaching 

dreams 

of night, 

struggling 

with the climb 

to the stars 

the last wings 

of dusk

reflect 

a rising moon

in the upper windows, 

of day

and light 

And below

all is quiet, 

all is silent,

the clouds 

have spoken,

a thousand 

thousand 

words

in a flood

of goodbyes

for this evening, 

the sky has broken, 

in tears 

the farewell

of summer,

a last glimmer

of laughter

in her closing dream

of autumn’s eyes

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And so begins…

And so begins 

the morning rain, 

the skies deepen 

above the green 

to grey, 

to slate, 

to black, 

as the sun blinks 

once 

and slips 

behind 

the morning trouble 

of a weeping sky, 

not bothering

to shine, 

or to simply

look back.

for the birds 

are singing 

across the dappled silence,

across the trembling thousands, 

of a summer 

of leaves, 

sparkling in the millions 

the silver lights, 

upon the polished concrete 

of falling summer grey, 

the early morning skies

do weave. 

For as pressing,

upon the thirsting earth

with no sounds, 

just the rumble 

of thunder victorious, 

the people 

have hidden, 

gone into themselves,

sleeping deeply, 

dreaming, 

of sunlight,

as the rain presses

ever heavier, 

harder

upon tears, 

and windows, 

searching for the longer 

forgotten, 

the promise

of cold, 

the future memories, 

of once 

November days.

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Silver Green

Touching gold,

the fields

of morning green,

above the skies,

beyond the sun,

June waits

unknown, 

unseen,

for listening quietly 

to the early call

of another 

passing May,

time ticks slowly,

the village clock

chimes 

the hours,

as spring 

slips, still

further away.  

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