Time Out

Forty days, and in each one

I carve a cave.

Collecting,

My sacred books

And thoughts.

And in my prayers,

I gather

My family and friends

Offering them up to you

Like captured birds.

Knowing that, in You,

They are set free.

 

 

                                   Shore

                                             Standing here gazing

                                            at the glittering horizon

                                            and distant hills,

                                            I am amazed

                                           at the stillness.

                                           The tide far out

                                           no sound or sight

                                           of breakers

                                           breaking the stillness.

                                           Just single streaks

                                                   of silver

                                           scribbled across the sand

                                                  of dull gold.

                                           A treasure trove 

                                                 of beauty.

   

                                                                        Clouds

Clouds are not lonely!

They march,

a mighty army

gathering darkly together

to hurl their sopping arrows

at the earth below.

 

Or they move majestically,

an armada,

a billowing bounty

of fine weather

fat and white,

filled with the summer winds --

they sail.

 

Or flatly lie,

rocky strata

in greys and blues

flushing to rose and flame

accompanying

the sinking sun.

 

A single lonely cloud

is never seen.

They are a brotherhood,

a magnificent multitude

that curtains the heavens,

shadows the hills

and dims the gold

of daffodils.

 

 

When Autumn Comes

Yes, autumn time is here,

and spring is far away.

The memories of summer

linger still.

And in the hedgerow

autumn writes its message

in the trees,

to be prepared, for

 winter's on its way.

 

If I could be

one of those trees

which one would I be?

Some shrivel up in duns and browns

leaves withering like wrinkled hands

hang down.

And other trees

give up their leaves

at the first icy blast,

 stand naked then

and shivering

clothed only in their bark.

Yet some, it seems

grip tight their leaves

and will not let them go

though they are dead and dry.

 

But not for me these dried up trees

I'll don the bonfire hues.

Burning bright

against the cold and ice

I'll shout out to the sky.

In flame and crimson bold

in oranges and gold

I'll party in the hedgerows

one last time.

When all is done

and winter comes

 will I be ready then

to shed my leaves

give up the dance

look to another spring?

 

November in the Park

This is November

where,

left by whining winds

and raging rains,

a sparse scattering

of leaves cling wetly,

like yellow rags to twig and bough.

the russet and the orange gems

no longer crisply crackle

underfoot.

Rain water glues them to the path

and there they stay.

But drier leaves

whisked by the playful blast

rise up and dance

across the grass

where true gold can be found.

The elegant alder

holds out her skirts and 

shows her stubby roots.

Burnt umber beads

bedeck her twigs

her nut-like autumn fruit.

Small puddles

at the pavement's edge

deep, deep within them lie

the waving boughs and tangled trees

and dark November skies.

Winter Came

It came in the night,

roaring and howling.

Hungry.

The trees,

in the morning,

lifting their leafless limbs

against the scudding sky.

The willow wept no more,

bowing her head

as if in shame.

And in the park

a towering tracery of

twigs

against the blue.

They look

 taller somehow.

majestic in

 their 

nakedness.

Stripped of their

Autumn 'glad-rags'

Winter came.