Tales from the edge of the morning sky

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Statue

Silver shadows, 

fleetingly in wings, 

lifting grey 

and morning 

across the sullen steel 

and silhouetted sky, 

And above the call 

of rooks, 

above the church 

and tower, 

block and stone, 

belief and faith, 

turning time, 

in hidden chimes 

and the passing 

moments 

of hurrying hours, 

there stands

a figure, 

cast in gold 

and bronze, 

poised in grace, 

light and dawn, 

arms outspread, 

head and shoulders, 

westwards facing,

a smile, 

a greeting 

to all who pass,

motionless, 

blind to the sky

living life,

and lost,

deep 

in the hurry,

far below.

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Sign and Butterflies

I saw 

two teenagers, 

deaf to the rush 

of the city, 

and the hurrying 

world 

around them,

smiling 

they were,

and standing

together 

as if sharing 

the early morning 

sky 

of summer 

and blue, 

they signed 

in poetries 

of sunlight, 

love, 

and friendship 

walking together,

dawning air, 

fresh

and new,

their hands 

and fingers,

creating 

and speaking

silences invisible 

in blossoms 

and butterflies, 

dancing 

in patterns 

and wingspans,

in colour 

imagined 

and life 

being born 

belonging

together,

and they knew.

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Fog (In Spring)

Feels like November, 

without the darkness, 

without empty leaves 

and debris fall, 

no wind, 

no winter, 

no hidden stars, 

just the emptiness 

of sky and call, 

of rooks and cries, 

for about the church 

and tower, 

the peel 

of bells, 

the lifting dark 

and dawning grey, 

spring lies,

hidden, 

in blossom, 

in flowers, 

summer lifting life 

for the choir 

of light, 

that begins 

today.

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Thunder and  Silence 

Still and silent,

the hardness 

of steel, 

black and grey,

presses and squeezes 

the morning light 

from a reluctant dawn 

and leaden sky, 

whilst below 

in swathes 

of new and vital green, 

the earth exhales
 
and holds itself, 

ready for the fall 

and hammer 

of early morning 

thunder rain, 

and though the birds 

sing loudly, 

in umbrella songs 

of colour 

and invisible kites 

of hope,

in the celebration 

of thousands 

of applauding trees, 

the hush and whisper 

of opening leaves, 

heeds the farewell 

of night.

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Slow 

Slow are 

the morning 

skies

to clear, 

summer’s secrets 

still hidden

in spring time 

flowers, 

clouds 

and tears, 

For though 

the trees 

are full,

with leaf 

and opening 

green,

the plough, 

earth 

and seed 

await 

still 

folded

and unforeseen.

And so alone

I walk 

along the path, 

between 

the fall 

and rise 

of hill, 

river, 

copse 

and dale, 

knowing life 

will open 

and unfold, 

with time 

to pass

until

moments

open earth

life

and season 

summer soon

to come

and prevail.

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She sings

She sings 

atop the apple tree, 

the morning opening, 

springtime life 

and sunlight 

awakening, 

across 

the blue mist

and gauzes 

of dawn 

and grey,

the dew dropped 

grass 

a sweetening 

freshness 

of tears 

and summer, 

blossoming 

and joy,

in forever time

and for today.

And clothing 

her meadows 

and orchards, 

standing, 

awaiting, 

upon her shoulders, 

proud

and tall, 

dawn is uplifting 

intoxicated,

with fragrances

and perfumes, 

upon a smiling 

earth

is early 

summer,

and the beginning 

of life

that May. 

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Eclipse: an episode.

We looked out of the window. Suddenly, it had gone dark. As if we had awakened into a dream that was not our own. As if someone had slipped away from the world into shadow. There were some reflections in the window. A blue light. A pair of eyes. A line of light suggesting an open corridor: an exit perhaps from whence we came. 

The shadow of myself peering into the visceral shock of what we could see.

Outside, above the trees it was dark. Layers of cloud passed slowly from behind our building and, seemingly, behind a blanketed moon. It blinked like fevered eye as it passed, smudged in front of a forbidden sun.

We fell further into shadow. Shocked and silenced, slipping further into disbelief. The darkness increased, thick, intense, like an oil between the gaps of the world we knew creating a world we knew not.

Gradually one of the clouds ripped, torn into shreds by the sharp edges of a keen invisible wind. And became wings. Wings that seemed to scream and pull, multiplying into seconds of thousands as they streamed outwards weaving black lines of threads and nets across the  grey and steel of a sinking sky.

Catching the weeping darkness of an emptying moon.

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Dancing (Horses)

Dancing
in the rivers 
of darkness, 
the twilight stars 
in gentle dust 
do fall, 
the moon rises 
hanging upon 
rooftops, 
beyond the city, 
above 
the blinking rush 
of light 
and roar, 
into a deafening 
silence 
beyond the hew 
and empty thrall, 

And standing still, 
three horses 
hold the silence,
facing the lengthening 
shadows, 
the steepening 
stillness 
of a coming night, 
one black, 
one grey, 
one a  
messenger,
of morning, 
silhouetted 
in silver, 
incandescent, 
burning, 
heavenly, bright.

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Remember Rain?

There’s something

about the rain, 

falling in tears 

of silver,

from the dull 

and grey 

of a weeping 

sky, softly, 

so softly,

in thousands, 

each in, 

and one, 

of the many, 

the droplets 

of memory, 

upon the window 

pane, 

and so 

to look upwards, 

beyond 

the puddled 

terrace, 

gardens 

of green 

and blossom, 

the tickle 

and trace 

of pouring 

waters, 

to the bridge, 

and beneath,

the endless flow 

of rain 

and river, 

the stream 

of what 

is past,

present, 

and further 

back 

to what is,

to what might

become, 

dreaming 

of spring 

sunlight, 

and summer, 

before I return 

to look 

at my 

footsteps 

in the shadows 

of the 

rising sun.

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Spring  (Summer Bells)

Summer bells 

in Spring 

do chime, 

the blossoming

of life 

the passing 

of time, 

as above 

the flowers,

the sky 

in blue, 

longer to come

the hours 

of May, 

the promise 

of summer

born

in you.

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