Tales from the edge of the morning sky

Thunder Rain

I heard 

the thunder 

last night, 

deep growls, 

and dragons

like flames, 

hidden, in

the shattered 

darkness, 

splitting the sky 

into splinters 

of storm,

and light, 

I looked out 

through 

the window, 

my face 

a shadow,

facing myself 

outside 

of myself, 

and saw 

the silhouettes 

of rooftops, 

the shocks 

and silences 

of trees 

standing,

in the dead

of night.

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Moon, Kite and Wings

And there 

above the roof 

of heaven split, 

the scratch 

and travel 

of a different kind, 

aloft in modern times, 

with pencil wings, 

silver fuselage, 

streaking in white 

and across 

the evening sky, 

and behind 

the slow, 

silver dark 

of a passing 

summer moon, 

in phases removed 

and reflected, 

reaching behind 

the temporary 

the here and now, 

the turn of months 

like chapters,

she rose magnificent 

her wings 

stretching, 

upon the last breath 

the heat invisible,

spiralling 

an unseen hand

uplifting, her last

shadow flickering

across the landscape

below, fields

and pathways

rooftops and gardens

choking roads 

and building sites

she passed 

and arched

over all

until…

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For  the briefest of moments 

For the briefest 

of moments, 

the emerald green 

was lit,

by an opening door, 

Spring walked 

from the west,

bathed in silence, 

light and 

of summer gold, 

the trees, 

their leaves, 

each of the millions 

of blades 

and grass,

 lit in fires 

of incandescence, 

as she stepped 

from the edge 

of the evening sky, 

and walked through 

the shadows, 

the last retreat 

the gathering memories 

of winter, 

of dark 

and of dusk, 

in her hands she held 

the stars, 

at her breast  

she wore the afterglow, 

a blossoming time 

of flowers, 

and behind her head, 

was the rising first 

of summer, 

the heady 

intoxicating days,

of the fullness 

of time and life 

that are the weeks 

of high summer 

and of June,

she walked 

and further, 

into the meadows 

and fields 

that were opening, 

as she passed 

ripening in seeds 

of birth, warmth 

and fecundity, 

for a while, 

the briefest 

of hushes, 

of moments 

and measures 

of eternity itself, 

the earth alone, 

stood still 

And sighed, 

her tears 

of loneliness,

lost in the hollow,

the emptiness, 

of a forgotten 

winter wind.

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Sounds of…

Sounds 

of cicadas, 

the soft 

gentle fall,

of a summers 

day, 

the last 

blackbirds 

singing, 

closing 

the afterglow, 

a last tractor 

mowing 

the meadows, 

the flutter 

of swallows, 

the laughter 

of neighbours, 

the perfume 

of blossoms, 

the smell 

of hay, 

and above 

the clouds, 

incandescence, 

opalescence, 

the yellow 

smudge 

of an evening 

sun, 

the day ends 

where it begins, 

in invisibility

the color 

of birdsong, 

the heavens 

in sunlight, 

and the winter, 

finally,

undone.

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I only noticed, 

the grey 

of sky, 

the steel 

of cloud, 

the fractured light, 

in the hours 

that chimed 

and called

upon the

city rooftops, 

their echoes

of time, 

the closing 

of yesterday, 

for the trees 

were silhouetted, 

the woodland,

in knots 

and fists, 

of gales,

of night 

and rages 

of wind,

when she 

simply turned

turned to rain

and fell 

upon the silence 

and softly

sadly, 

just walked

away.

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High Rain

Something 

about the morning, 

rain from the west 

across the sullen skies, 

seems November 

has returned, 

summer’s lost 

her way, 

hiding behind 

the clouds, 

blushing behind 

the dawn, 

hiding her modesty, 

closing her eyes.

For below 

the fields stand 

empty, along 

the churning river, 

the trees weigh, 

heavily with raindrops, 

and tapestries 

of springtime 

in flourishes 

and waterfalls 

of green, 

the country lanes, 

long, turning 

blindly, 

distances to nowhere, 

May and June, 

hidden, empty 

of promises, 

left unseen.

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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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Blossom (in the Rain)

Blossom 

in the rain, 

falling petals 

of spring 

weeping steel 

and grey 

of winter 

leaving,

For at last, 

wearily 

and closing,

his eyes, 

heavy

and drooping,

shut

as a rumble 

of thunder 

rolls 

Rolls

and echoes,

across 

an early 

darkness, 

the birds 

silenced, 

only raindrops 

dance 

and call, 

to earth, 

and soil

To fall

Into a deeper 

darkness 

of waiting, 

and dreaming 

summer 

and of leaving 

the light 

of dawn 

and day

unfold.

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The tree

Between wind 

and storm, 

sea and sky, 

the tree stood 

through time, 

rock,place, 

roots deep,

bough 

and branch,

stretching high. 

And below, 

his children 

cried,played, 

couples carved, 

hearts,

and kissed, 

through generations 

of footsteps 

in passing,

seasons made.

For then 

as now,

in spring 

the woodland

blossoms, 

with stories

along pathways

all journeys 

true will bring.

And in the passing

of hours,

there is a calling 

from legends, 

magic, life, 

and lore

from ancient trees

for those

who step 

and seek, joy 

and wisdom, 

through nature’s 

open door.

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The Silent Sea

She stood 

beside the sea, 

and watched 

the sky, 

in mirrors 

of waves,

upon the 

golden shore, 

overhead,

the seagulls 

swooped 

and arced,

weaving light 

in invisible 

nets 

of crystal 

geometries, 

the sun slipping 

beyond 

the distance 

and mountains, 

sentinels 

of ancient times, 

and lore.

And upon 

the receding tide, 

ripples of time, 

the dance 

of days 

were written 

in colours, 

silhouettes 

and shadows,

above,

the first stars, 

like wishes 

flickering 

as candles, 

illuminating promises 

from the advancing 

hush of night, 

one first step,

she took.

One step, 

and then 

another, 

and again, 

until further 

she had walked,

into the emptiness 

the spaces 

between there 

and then, 

here and now, 

and left 

this world 

for another, 

the waters 

closing in silence, 

the wings 

of her heavens 

closing, 

into the dusk 

and cold, 

the forever 

at dawn, 

to sing

no more.

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First and Light 

Across the first, 

the light 

of morning, 

beneath the fading 

fall of stars,

April awaits 

through 

the light 

of dawn, 

and grey,

for beyond 

the meadows,

awaits 

the birth 

of life,

of Spring

and today.

For above 

the terrace,

still sleeping,

the early bloom 

of flowers,

a breeze, 

the first 

of summer

lifts the silence 

to hear 

the birdsong 

upon the broken 

brick

and garden wall

to please

They lift 

the hush 

of memories 

summer bidding 

the dream 

of Spring 

to awaken 

and sing

but the morning

is closed

and silent

heeding not 

the summer’s 

cry and call 

to  bring 

For time 

is travelling 

across 

the seasons, 

a measured dance 

of hours 

beyond the valleys 

begins 

the chimes 

the awakening world 

awaits the turn 

and his calling, 

as upon 

the Easter tide 

across the 

quiet city

the echoes 

of church 

and towers,

he sings

As today, 

the earth 

is ready 

and fertile, 

the tress 

in bud 

and bough, 

ready 

for the summer 

sky to hold, 

the wind 

will shake the winter 

overnight

into the deeper sleep

somehow.

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