Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Storm in me

Sky, wind,storm, 

and sea, 

the earth’s stopped spinning and everything’s turning, flying and I’m falling 

like a stone, 

further into me, 

I need an anchor, 

spinning around 

and around, 

losing my grip 

from the lost and found, 

my life in a tumble, 

finding it hard to breathe, 

the world has collapsed inward, 

and I have to leave, 

I’ve reached rock bottom, there’s nowhere to go, 

the howling and screaming just don’t want to know, 

I’m calling outside myself,

into the chasing dusk, 

must strive against the wind, for living I must, 

now climbing, 

now falling, 

I’m reaching outside, 

lifting my dreams to the stars, don’t want to hide, 

so I’m joining the wind, 

not fighting anymore, 

striving for the horizons, 

for I’ve done it before, 

and now the wind has changed, 

it’s become the sea, 

and I’m walking 

on the beach, 

the tide is out,

and with a sunrise

to be.

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She didn’t care. She was remembering her, the one who had followed them both...

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‘Afterwards they would lie deliciously for long hours in the sun, long hours in the welcoming heat of sand, drinking in the perfume of each other laughing at the sand that was in all of their places they had explored with  their lovemaking…’at least,’she whispered out loud  to herself, clutching the jar tightly and staring at her hard reflection  in the window above the sink, ‘at least until we had had enough.’ Her eyes were like steel, ice and grey as she remembered the day that turned their skies to black.

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Storm

A storm of stars 

thrown from skies 

in fists of light, 

thunder against 

the fractured 

winter glass.

For outside,

through roars 

of midnight,

the jaws

of darkness, 

tear the truth 

from clouds 

asunder,

And below,

in the shattered 

remnants,

the moon remains

hidden,

blinded, by 

the sudden, 

hurried, 

violent blast.

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Crows 

In the slow, 

grey, 

cold 

of early morning, 

in the unhurried 

retreat, 

from darkness, 

invisible, 

and crying, 

across the metallic shield 

of skies, 

the crows fling aside 

the shadows of morning 

and bid the sun 

in barks, 

rise!

rise!

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A jar, a history, a story out of time.

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The Tide

In the morning darkness,

high on the hill tops 

in the storming tide 

of wind, 

the high elms 

bend 

and twist, 

in the greatening

gusts 

of a rising gale, 

and above,

in a handful 

of black

and wings 

a throw of cries

a great flock 

of shadows

slew, 

slip 

and fall,

as rooks in spits 

and spirits, 

peel and spin

against the invisible 

darkness, 

against 

the broken sky.

And far below, 

far along 

the sunken lanes, 

and through 

the tossing rage 

of hedges, 

the first dawn 

falls in a flurry 

and flood, 

a tumble of sticks 

and leaves.

and rides. 

For the moon,

above,

has been blown 

over-tilting 

the sinking earth,

wrecking the skies, 

sending clouds,

left chasing 

in the empty calls, 

of willful winds,

And there 

across the winter darkness, 

and still further

the villages 

and towns 

crouch 

and shelter, 

hidden, 

blinded, 

from the blasts 

of early morning rain. 

Engulfed, 

by the topsy-turvy

truth of tides. 

the waves 

of rain,

beat 

in thunders 

across 

the lowland plain, 

with howls 

and shrieks 

of complaints, 

the telegraph wires 

whine and whinny,

in horses cries

to shout again

will the morning 

ever rise?

And in the end 

against the quaking,

the rattling earth, 

the embattled rage, 

of dawning skies, 

the quickening fists 

of trees, 

behind the wall 

of hills and darkness, 

the sun struggles 

to rise and lift, 

the dawn 

and heave,

for there

in mud 

and swollen stream

returning river, 

and emptying sea

the storm does blow,

lost to me.

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Great galleon ships

With great galleon ships, laden with stars 

and the moon hidden 

beyond the waves, 

in glimpses 

and shadows 

behind the western dawn

of morning skies, 

for the wind pushed 

and moaned, 

over the torrents, 

over the flood,

of darkness, 

the aching branches, 

the outstretched limbs, 

the trembling uncertainty 

of trees, 

for she it was,

who lifted her eyes, 

to the storming sighs 

of heavens, 

then Dawn, 

she turned 

towards the sun, 

lifted her arms 

to the rising sky,

and fell to the earth, 

embracing

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Above the Fog

Above the fog 

in the valleys, 

beyond the edges 

where the last 

of the trees

stand,

a beech,

the sun rises

upon the sands 

of hours, 

the tides

of dawn, 

and waves

of life

do reach,

For she lifts

her eyes 

to morning 

time,

upon the golden

waves 

at dawn,

for as she lies 

upon her back,

the last skies 

of stars

flood the earth

in dewdrops

softly 

gently, 

the minutes 

of days,

at last 

do form.

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Night looked back

Night looked back at the morning sun, 

rising behind the rolling banks of clouds, 

low and pressing,

upon the twisted backs of supine hills, 

angular houses, 

their jagged rooftops 

like teeth 

in the dull metallic 

of grey skies.

Night pulled the cloak of hours 

from his powerful shoulders, 

and shook the stars 

from his long bedraggled hair, 

they fell in dew drops of millions, 

through the soft, 

silent, 

stillness, 

of the chilled dampness

of the morning air.

For it was a hushed morning, 

the earth damp, 

the crisp dawn of light 

in dewdrops, 

and dreams, 

of his starlight,

awakening, 

stretching the bark 

and branches 

of trees, slumbering 

in the half light, 

still. 

And as the sun rose,

sending tendrils of light in nets of colors,

across the morning sky, 

night turned, 

and slipped 

into the sharpening shadows 

of blindness.

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