Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Dawn, 

I’m thinking 

of you 

this evening, 

for the light 

of day 

is fading fast, 

everything changes 

with the seasons, 

for only life 

and love 

shall blossom

until this day

has passed

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Upon the summer hillside,

in early morning, 

upon the summer side 

of May, 

she walked across 

the empty fields, 

waiting for the sunrise 

and the start 

of another day. 

Her mane shone 

in silver, 

her eyes flamed 

with the wonder 

of the awakening sun, 

she flickered her tail 

across the morning, 

bringing dawn 

and sunlight, 

for the dawn, 

in symphonies, 

had just begun. 

She cantered across 

the fields, 

jumped the fences 

and hedges, 

of hidden magics

and forgotten lines, 

brought her past 

into the present, 

and opened 

the woodlands, byways 

and wanderings, 

from other places 

and other times.

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Taken to rest

The close 

of the day 

has slowly fallen, 

the tides, 

far and out 

with the rising 

springtime moon, 

the last sighs 

of evening 

have lifted the stars, 

to an awaiting heaven, 

and before I leave 

for sleep,

I’ll let the night 

close, around my eyes, 

to the dream 

of time 

of life, 

and the wonders 

that can’t come 

tonight, 

too soon…

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Window

There’s a window 

on the world 

tonight, 

looking beyond 

the rooftops, 

into the heart 

of a deepening night.

It’s so still 

out there, 

beyond the garden, 

through the early 

springtime, 

the drifting clouds, 

behind 

the moon 

and light.

And above, 

the sky, 

shimmering, 

across the pools 

of water, 

the teardrops fall

fragile, 

the stars,

hushed 

and gentle, 

in their fading

evening light. 

For the falling rain 

is starlight,

calling

upon the still 

and silent earth,

its so quiet, 

you can hear the bells 

of evensong,

lifetimes 

once again 

passing by, 

in the whispers 

of dust 

and prayers.

And waiting 

behind the stage, 

the theatre of time 

the call

of departures

just to the left, 

‘goodbye to all this,’

whispers the winter,

turning to the roots

he quietly leaves 

his garden,

and passes quietly

into the sinking skies,

and west…

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Fragrance

Upon the fragrant lawns 

of spring, 

summer is slowly 

coming, 

her promises

in birdsong 

budding,

the liquid honey 

of sunlight  

calling the

song of bees.

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People started not to notice after a while. At first, of course, there was a general alarm, an illness, an epidemic of concern of the monotony of living which reached a peak of media attention and then like a storm, as quickly as it had come, it was forgotten, as change, climate and the capriciousness of the public interest was blamed on the wind…

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Farewell (at last)

Whispers 

of light 

and shadows 

across the morning, 

the sound 

of the springtime 

wind, 

invisible, 

in waves 

and tides 

across the shimmering, 

the morning skies

will bring.

For through the opening, 

the dawn 

of passing clouds, 

and the flickering 

of shadows 

of new born leaves,  

beyond the grumble 

of lawnmowers, 

and above the smell 

of freshly mown grass,

 beneath the cherry blossom 

of moonlight

winter bids farewell

and leaves,

at last.

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On the edge of night, 

the skies are filling 

with clouds, 

pressing the heavens 

from blue 

to grey, 

to charcoal black,  

April lifts up the spires 

and villages 

of twilight dusk, 

lying with them

hidden 

in the frozen furrows 

of earth, 

winter turns his coat 

up at the collar, 

faces the growing eastern wind 

and hurries 

through the empty trees 

- and back.

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Magnolia 

You can stand under her tree. 

Imagining time. 

Being there. 

For two weeks, 

from bud, 

to blossom, 

to blessing, 

to fall. 

And because you are there, 

don’t try too hard, 

just listen to where you are now,

(especially to the bird songs 

and the wind that hushes

in this afternoon 

of lightness 

and abandoned belonging), and then, 

for a brief chain 

of moments, 

feel yourself beneath the Magnolia, 

and for a while, given, 

but not taken away, 

a short while, 

so that you can wonder, 

through the petals, 

at the passing blue 

of skies…

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Easter Snow

Snow and silence, 

the fallen stars 

of a winter sky, 

the springtime prayers 

in blossoms 

have fallen, 

the last grasp 

of winter, frozen,

in the trial 

of April 

upon the cross 

to Eastertide 

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