Faint outlines
Fainter horizons
Flickering stillness
Absent slowness
Of a weekend morning
Brighter skies
Clearer lies
Over the ridge of trees
In the foreground
Five Silver Birch
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Faint outlines
Fainter horizons
Flickering stillness
Absent slowness
Of a weekend morning
Brighter skies
Clearer lies
Over the ridge of trees
In the foreground
Five Silver Birch
Half of love
Half of brothers
Half of maybe
And their mothers
One of north
One of south
One of always
Hand to mouth
Two of truth
Two of lies
Two of noise
And lonesome cries
Three of birth
Three of rites
Three of time
To fly their kites
So positive
And sensitive
Two sons
On consecutive days
So thankful
And mindful
Two communiques
In equally impressionable ways
So proud
And regrettable
Two families
With inconclusive stays
Lead, on paper
Thought exposed
Peace disturbed
So to bring presence
Light, from sky
Path to follow
Nothing so easy
As to bring nothing
Blossom, on tree
Soft, vulnerable
Velvet captured
Bring silk
Bring wonder
As to need nothing
Bring garments
As to take nothing
There is sunlight and blossom
As there was yesterday also
There is work, in progress
As there must also be tomorrow
The body fluctuates, hitherto
As does the mind
Yet the process of writing
Brings peace, with a sprig of joy
Even to write of love
Present love and past love
Words settle the soul
Within is as it is without