Soft, the imprint of your soul on mine,
like footprints in the melting snow;
I try to hold your shape and sense
your absent touch, your force, our past
held in my ice, then forming pools.
My heart beats as the sun, moving
through the sky, shimmers in crystal
echoes of your last goodbye.
——
Inspired by the last remnants of our recent snowfall, around the edges of the tennis court this evening, and someone I haven’t seen for a few months, and miss.
Snowdrops humble before frozen grass,
iced twigs and sharpened sods of winter’s
deathly call, this morning. I noticed
you again, this year; warm and gentle
by the tree, assuming nothing
but tomorrow’s sun.
——————————–
I planted some snowdrops more than 10 years ago underneath a willow tree in my garden. Some years I feel I don’t notice them at all.
I was surprised and delighted to be told I’d won the M:/P MAG Competition today for a poem written in January. Here’s a link to the poem – Resolutions, and here’s a link to dVerse poets and M:/P MAG.
I’m amazed – Thank you to the judges!
Snow-smothered Sunday
streets silent this morning, when
I woke to go swimming.
—————-
We had 10cm of snow overnight.
It was after the time of the bees
she bloomed alone, a single rose
among thorns; scented and white, I see
her petals, pink-edged in the dawn light
of those final days.
I could have wings, and buzz, a bit, at
least – or hum. My shorts are yellow too
and I have a stripy shirt. I like
honey, and flowers, and I dream of meadows,
despite my being a man.
So I landed on your petals, and
sipped your dew. Scented with longing, you
helped me sleep, and we dreamed together
alone, of times of bees and roses,
until your petals fell.
———
Posted on dVerse Poets, open link night.
Sliding from the station
in Stafford, past empty brick-built
passions from a faded, failing world:
they dreamed of industry
and power, forgetting people, history
and time – as all who seek to change
and build, must.
Faster through the sensual farms
of sleeping Staffordshire,
with woods and birds and village halls;
two walkers, and a dog.
The morning light on English fields
is gold and green today;
undisturbed, from where I sit,
by any passing train.
We are so good at self-deceit,
in England, where we kill
with ancient dreams and paper knives,
each brick-built works at will.
———–
On my way to Liverpool, feeling wistful. Posted on Poets United.
Pavement puddles catch
me, unaware in the dark,
on winter mornings.
————————
Finding life once more
takes the rhythm of haiku,
is a beginning.
He was there again
today, in the rain; singing
louder. I smiled.
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.
Candles
silent like swans;
calm,
flicker.
Your candles:
warm light
always
dying;
slow shadows;
moving,
longing,
burning,
threatening;
recalling
ancient ways
of seeing
through darkness,
light.
Remembering, like candlelight.
Keep away from children, and
handle with care.
————————
Posted on dVerse Poets January 24 2012
poetry diary 