A single songbird;
winter melody rising
over braking cars.
—————
Walking to work this morning. There was a single songbird at the top of a tree at the end of my road.
Green moss on grey rock;
shadows playing tricks with leaves
trembling with summer.
Finding a ruined hut
I could sit and watch the leaves
past their next falling.
Your-eye-blue contemplative sky;
soft focus on the lazy way
once-brushed day-end clouds flow
effortlessly, like your hair
around the warm, welcome home
of another perfect evening.
Your face is in this moment
looking into me, and smiling;
looking out from me, and redefining
every plant and stone.
Time flowing like the clouds,
reflected in the river
passing slowly, this evening;
fading gently, this evening;
speaking softly, this evening;
uniquely, this evening;
as always, this evening.
I am floating, this evening,
on the eddies;
on the whispers;
on the ripples;
on the darkness,
and the mystery
of your love.
—————————
I should have grown out of romanticism a long time ago, I sometimes think. But I didn’t. A friend of mine told me this week that love matures through romance (and maybe vice versa too?). This poem is for her.
Reaching through the fantasies and patterns
of an ordinary day, you touched me.
I was grateful. Time changed its usual pace.
Soon I found myself looking back towards
the place where you had been.
I could not say, at supper, where I was.
I spoke to others; the long evening passed –
lingered before I went to bed – still there,
something intangible but warm. I slept,
quite well, but as I woke I found the shape
new in my soul, and clearer now, was you.
—–
Submitted to http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/. August 2011.
I wish the world were
simpler than it is, he said,
and she smiled, sadly.
—–
A haiku, for one single impression.
As wind I touch your apple blossom hair,
and falling petals meet the rising scent of dew.
Your wings of spider’s thread quiver and relax,
and lilac hands outstretched caress the watching air.
As rain I fall soft and light onto your skin,
we feel the grass warm and damp between our toes;
bluebells exude the richness of the earth,
and buds open their hearts and cry ‘begin’.
As sun I draw the sparkle from your eyes,
blue, all-seeing, and silent like the sky;
quick songbirds cross your path with rising chords,
and lambs look up to watch your gentle dance.
You wait beneath the aching chestnut tree;
his dappled shade stroking your snowdrop arms.
The river runs and cools your blushing brow,
and fairy maids arrive to offer fruit.
It’s spring across the whole of your domain;
creatures awake and humans call their names.
You pull my soul and those of all my friends;
you say our time is now – it’s come again.
———————
This is a little twee and romantic, but I guess it’s something to do with the weather, or the fairies. Submitted to Thursday Poets’ Rally.
Unexpectedly, the room stopped moving.
She sat complete and waiting in her chair.
‘May I kiss you?’ were not the words he said;
it would have been too bold he felt, still scared,
so he chose ‘may I have a hug?’ instead.
The welcome of her smile emptied his heart.
He felt unique, alone yet not apart.
“Yes,” she said, again, and her eyes lit up.
He rose, in joy, and crossed the warming floor.
—————-
This poem is a second contribution to Poets United Thursday think tank – your first time… I intended a longer poem, but then this seemed just the right place to stop.
‘Bathing strictly prohibited,’ it said
on signs along the shore.
He felt his skin lighten beneath his shirt
and one toe touched bare rock.
The landscape shimmered, floated in the waves,
coots ascended lapping hills;
the sun watched, with patience, from behind clouds
and the earnest sparrows sang.
A solitary fishing boat stood out,
holding the world at bay.
He loosed his belt and let it drop – it fell;
his thighs embraced the air.
The brutal wind, which had been waiting, woke;
ospreys rose and scanned for prey.
May blooms shivered and scattered in the breeze
and wide-eyed lambs looked on.
Around the bend, a gang of cyclists came
brakes screeching, making hay.
He unbuttoned his shirt, drew one deep breath,
and plunged into the bay.
I’ve been walking and cycling around Rutland Water, and imagining a first act of rebellion maybe (for Poets United).
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.
poetry diary 