poetry diary

I rhyme to see myself, to set the darkness echoing. (Seamus Heaney, from Personal Helicon)

A poem for morning

Rays of pastel shade
should grace this page
as they do the world
of morning’s quiet illusions:
lace curtain to apocalypse – before
we remember
the land that lies beneath the dew;
the faces hidden still from view,
and the bells that toll
for yesterday.


Gently persuasive buds of dreams once grew here,
in fragile beauty convincing realities to merge.
Parallels in lamplight, tingeing ancient stone;
or some timeless concept, that in its simple bowl
retained the almost wholeness of some unspoken goal.

We know now –
existence is but a line in the poetry of the world,
and solitude is a journey: a road between our meetings.
Buds flower (the lucky ones) harden and fade to wood.

Splinters of reality;
cracked, now,
or perhaps recombined with gaps.

Once hammered by minds
against the
anvil of necessity
with such noise.

It’s quieter now:
more considered.
And new buds grow on our branches.

These are reworked excerpts and lines from poems written as a student many years ago, refound and recombined in honour of a college reunion yesterday and stimulated by this week’s prompt from Poetry Tow Truck, with thanks to Margo Roby for pointing it out on her wordgathering site.