Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Blind Immaculate,fresh sneakers, perfectly shaved, slicked back hair, crisply ironed shirt- only the cane and the way he felt his way on board the now familiar 207 bus, made it clear to anyone who was watching.  His partner helped him: as he lightly touched her elbow she guided him up the steps, and to the outside front seat, slightly to the right but behind the driver. She sat next to him, by the window, talking about anything that passed as the bus weaved it’s way through traffic, paused at bus stops and slowly collected passengers from and through the suburbs as they all headed for the station.

Except this morning, he was on his own….

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Cobalt Moon.
I stepped onto the terrace, the still and silent evening wrapped in grey echoing the church bells that chimed in steps and distances across the deepening  shadows thickening into the emptiness, the last breath of Spring, the falling memories and blossom of the passing month of May, And hidden in the hush, the green, the places where the wind left and went away, I saw the footsteps of morning, across the dew drops glistening upon the freshly mown garden lawn, I followed them with my eyes, and saw a figure, standing, wrapped in silver gossamer threads and moonlight pointing to the river, as it emptied in waves and ripples of conversations, reflecting the last running mirrors of daylight, deepening again the falling, the few evening stars once hidden, now turning above the fields and edges, along the last tendrils of day against the blackness, the cobalt moon arising,

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Sleepy Summer Afternoon

It’s a lazy, 

sleepy afternoon, 

the villages 

are empty, 

flowers,

in colours 

of summer, 

curtsy 

and nod 

in the baking sunlight,

 radiating off walls 

and shimmering rooftops,

and, 

as if uplifted, 

a single buzzard 

flies 

and swoops

 overhead. 

It’s so warm, 

the distance 

is translated, 

from far 

and away, 

to the here 

and now: 

a band of 

light above 

the winding road, 

the asphalt, soft, 

under the lens 

of light, 

a magnifying glass 

to places 

and oases 

beyond the peel 

of church bells, 

that mark, 

in a sudden silence, 

the slipping 

of hours. 

And it is here 

that I stop, 

and step off the path, 

lean over the fence, 

across the summer gardens, 

the flowerbeds, 

the well kept lawns, 

abandoned lawnmowers, 

the hiss 

of water sprinklers, 

the hurried slam 

of descending 

sun blinds, 

and here it is 

that I stop, 

and look 

at the world 

from the side.

And beyond 

the crumbling brick wall, 

the crooked apple tree, 

bending like Father Time,

over the broken gap, 

the open doorway, 

where butterflies 

dance and tarry, 

I see further than myself, 

the slow patterns 

of the wind 

and seasons, 

the trembling 

shadow hands 

of leaves, 

and deeper, 

further into the folds 

and valleys 

of the distances 

that await me.

But of course,

I am blind. 

I can see 

no further 

than the fingers 

of my left hand, 

the hand that feels 

the breeze 

flow thorough 

and across it. 

and the  memories 

and whispers 

of former times,

they, that gather 

and press 

around me, 

shaping, 

waiting, 

listening 

to my breathing, 

hearing the dance 

of my heart 

as I slowly feel myself 

slipping, 

stretching 

and falling 

through.

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Awakening

Awakening

hints 

of morning,

the coming 

of heat 

through 

the thinning 

morning cloak 

of cloud, 

steel 

of sky, 

and springtime 

grey,

above

high upon

the Maple 

sings

the blackbird

lifting

the dawn

of life

and light,

this day.

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Thunder Rain

I heard 

the thunder 

last night, 

deep growls, 

and dragons

like flames, 

hidden, in

the shattered 

darkness, 

splitting the sky 

into splinters 

of storm,

and light, 

I looked out 

through 

the window, 

my face 

a shadow,

facing myself 

outside 

of myself, 

and saw 

the silhouettes 

of rooftops, 

the shocks 

and silences 

of trees 

standing,

in the dead

of night.

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Moon, Kite and Wings

And there 

above the roof 

of heaven split, 

the scratch 

and travel 

of a different kind, 

aloft in modern times, 

with pencil wings, 

silver fuselage, 

streaking in white 

and across 

the evening sky, 

and behind 

the slow, 

silver dark 

of a passing 

summer moon, 

in phases removed 

and reflected, 

reaching behind 

the temporary 

the here and now, 

the turn of months 

like chapters,

she rose magnificent 

her wings 

stretching, 

upon the last breath 

the heat invisible,

spiralling 

an unseen hand

uplifting, her last

shadow flickering

across the landscape

below, fields

and pathways

rooftops and gardens

choking roads 

and building sites

she passed 

and arched

over all

until…

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For  the briefest of moments 

For the briefest 

of moments, 

the emerald green 

was lit,

by an opening door, 

Spring walked 

from the west,

bathed in silence, 

light and 

of summer gold, 

the trees, 

their leaves, 

each of the millions 

of blades 

and grass,

 lit in fires 

of incandescence, 

as she stepped 

from the edge 

of the evening sky, 

and walked through 

the shadows, 

the last retreat 

the gathering memories 

of winter, 

of dark 

and of dusk, 

in her hands she held 

the stars, 

at her breast  

she wore the afterglow, 

a blossoming time 

of flowers, 

and behind her head, 

was the rising first 

of summer, 

the heady 

intoxicating days,

of the fullness 

of time and life 

that are the weeks 

of high summer 

and of June,

she walked 

and further, 

into the meadows 

and fields 

that were opening, 

as she passed 

ripening in seeds 

of birth, warmth 

and fecundity, 

for a while, 

the briefest 

of hushes, 

of moments 

and measures 

of eternity itself, 

the earth alone, 

stood still 

And sighed, 

her tears 

of loneliness,

lost in the hollow,

the emptiness, 

of a forgotten 

winter wind.

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Sounds of…

Sounds 

of cicadas, 

the soft 

gentle fall,

of a summers 

day, 

the last 

blackbirds 

singing, 

closing 

the afterglow, 

a last tractor 

mowing 

the meadows, 

the flutter 

of swallows, 

the laughter 

of neighbours, 

the perfume 

of blossoms, 

the smell 

of hay, 

and above 

the clouds, 

incandescence, 

opalescence, 

the yellow 

smudge 

of an evening 

sun, 

the day ends 

where it begins, 

in invisibility

the color 

of birdsong, 

the heavens 

in sunlight, 

and the winter, 

finally,

undone.

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I only noticed, 

the grey 

of sky, 

the steel 

of cloud, 

the fractured light, 

in the hours 

that chimed 

and called

upon the

city rooftops, 

their echoes

of time, 

the closing 

of yesterday, 

for the trees 

were silhouetted, 

the woodland,

in knots 

and fists, 

of gales,

of night 

and rages 

of wind,

when she 

simply turned

turned to rain

and fell 

upon the silence 

and softly

sadly, 

just walked

away.

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High Rain

Something 

about the morning, 

rain from the west 

across the sullen skies, 

seems November 

has returned, 

summer’s lost 

her way, 

hiding behind 

the clouds, 

blushing behind 

the dawn, 

hiding her modesty, 

closing her eyes.

For below 

the fields stand 

empty, along 

the churning river, 

the trees weigh, 

heavily with raindrops, 

and tapestries 

of springtime 

in flourishes 

and waterfalls 

of green, 

the country lanes, 

long, turning 

blindly, 

distances to nowhere, 

May and June, 

hidden, empty 

of promises, 

left unseen.

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