Sat, At The Breakfast Table

Look up the rolling hill
Towards the waning moon
Over the frosted fields
Through the crinkled hedgerow

White and silver and golden
Cast in limelight and shadow
The coup de gras though lies further
For beauty forages in the muddled woodland

From this quite significant distance
She resembles a patchwork quilt
Awash with autumnal and spring pastels
A rich mixed umber of natures equations

It all looks still, way out there
It is quiet, the day only broken
By the squawks in the very close foreground
Of the excitable, and wildly coloured, gaming birds

In these few moments of writing
The white morning moon
Falls down behind the tree line
All that is left is a sky of light missionary blue

Later, during breakfast, as if in a choreographed finale
Slow motion flocks of birds rise from the hidden valleys
They take a tour of the open air before they elegantly disappear again
Was it a mirage, the likes of which I had not witnessed ever before

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At The Start Of Day

Frost on trees, every limb
Every tentacle, every branch
Every non-linear metre

The artist may paint & pastel
Or the photographer might fix his still
But I will write; for the feel
Of the six o clock mornings
Is almost too dark to see

Only the sounds
Of the partridge and pheasants
Echo, to bring on, to serenade
The entrance of the day

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At The End Of Night

Daylight creeps into the valley, in search of the crowing voices
Beat of the pheasants wings brings their vibrations physicality to glass
It is all that stands between human warmth and the strut of winged courtship

The clocks tick tock, yet the alarm stays silent
Once again I have woken before the time to wake
To peer across the flat frosted grass, to look out, over the stream to the woodlands

Banks of trees that rise in an instant in a vast array of greens
And golds, browns, yellows and reds; and then, the wisp of eastern silver birch
For all that are chosen to stand erect, in search of the photosynthetic energy of light

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Relativity

Hillside, of country-house
Cotton blouse, some things to say
Words that only woman can speak

Hands held
By the hospital bed
At peace, at the last

Sat, with book in hand
How to begin, on the edge of tear
It is a deep responsibility

The flowers help
How else to say, I wanted to
But do not know how

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Settled For The Evening

A coffee
By the fire
I do not feel to be on my own anymore
And so I smile
Compliment the waitress
On a satisfying vegetarian dish

The lads at the bar
Talk of their mate
Having a kip in the afternoon
Of being
A morning person
Rather than a night owl

In limbo, unsure if
I am neither
One nor the other
Of course it would be good
If you were here
No doubt about that

But it is also warming
That you make me feel
Not to be on my own anymore
There it is
The coffee is here
The flames continue to flicker gladly

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