Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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The Last Song (of Spring)

The last song 

of evening, 

the first light 

of a new born day, 

the streets and houses 

are empty, 

smiles gone, 

since you went 

away, 

for spring 

you have departed 

and summer is near, 

but time 

does not lie, 

nor skies lie still 

in wonder, 

for life passes 

quickly 

since the last April day, 

for May you see 

is older 

as the year passes by, 

five months 

until Autumn, 

the days pass, 

in dreams 

of warmth, 

light and thunder, 

stay still my life, 

stay still,

for it all passes 

so swiftly by.

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Towering

skies, 

across mountains 

of clouds, 

in the collapsing dusk, 

rain clears 

from the starlit skies, 

the evening falls 

into shadows, 

as she must, 

as she must.

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The Watchmaker switched off, the cameras winked and rippled before her eyes, and as quickly as they had been conjured virtually, they vanished and she was left alone…

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In the fields 

of early May, 

when the skies 

have settled 

in a deepening ocean

in summer dreams

and blue, 

when the sun

is setting

fresh, warm

and still,

I see the waves 

of wheatgrass, 

and the tides 

of forest light 

upon the distant hill, 

and here I tarry 

upon the open road, 

the road that is homeward, 

before the invisible,

the guidance stars, 

for above,

they whisper 

of eternity, 

and time, 

time left until, 

for now is

the only moment, 

the birthing light 

of hope, 

their starlight like eyes 

in the darkness, 

as if alive 

and dancing 

dancing across the heavens 

slipping in hours,

beyond 

the watching moon.

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Something 

is coming, 

you can feel it 

in the air,

whispered

in the trees

a tingling, 

at the back 

of your neck, 

for above,

the sky is 

black, 

coal black,

slate black,

jet black,

the clouds deepening 

the premature 

darkness, 

thickening, 

with large clouds 

pressing 

the light 

to dusk

to darkness

overhead,

even the cicadas 

have stopped singing

the gaps 

of silence

muffled, 

somehow 

for the wind is still 

the roar

in the valleys below

subdued, 

silent, 

something is coming 

something is there 

and still

as I watch

listen,

everything 

is waiting,

for there are no people, 

to shutter 

the windows 

to slam the front doors 

only dogs in front yards

barking,

in the ruins, 

crouching,

whimpering,

something is

coming,

and I’m not looking back

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The first (of summer).

The first 

of summer, 

of moonlight, 

the birds 

still awake 

it’s true, 

and though the hours 

are long 

and time quickens, 

morning will come, 

May blossoms 

will fall,

and June?

June will smile 

her heavenly blue.

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Schmetterling 

I saw her flight, 

pirouetting in poetry, 

through the early summer blue 

of sky, 

her wings flickered 

in the afternoon silence, 

and then she settled 

upon my open hand, 

and taught me how to fly, 

for there she rested 

in moments that opened, 

in the blossoming seconds 

of hours, 

I opened my eyes 

at last, to wonder

for before me stood 

my lifetimes, 

of past and future choices,

in a bouquet

of wings and flowers. 

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Summ(h)er

The sun lay, 

hidden, 

behind morning clouds, 

the fields 

and woodlands, 

covered in mists, 

of dawning shrouds, 

and above,

the tapestries 

of birdsong, 

in the breathless hush 

of a new day sky

I saw the wings 

of summer,

as May kissed

the blossom

of Spring goodbye.

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Touch (Time Stand Still)

Touch with your hands,

the last hush 

of sunlight, 

and listen 

to the slowing chatter 

of cicadas

in the stillness of dusk, 

that is yet to fall, 

and await awhile

for the coming 

of night, 

and listen 

to the echoes, 

of a blackbird’s 

evening call, 

for here,

along this country lane,

take the time 

to stop awhile, 

beside 

this passing place, 

listening, 

waiting, 

for the slowness, 

of evening in opening starlight,

and thrall 

for it’s so quiet, 

and still, 

with the darkness 

to come, 

to listening 

to birdsong, 

to dream

not in haste,

until the movement

of time,

has left, 

-and gone.

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