In the still of morning
wrapped in birdsong
and the day’s last chill
fragranced by the passage of night
across the trees
I lose myself in a moment
one of a million I’m certain
a tangible peace
which glisters as crystal
then cracks and shatters,
as such moments, like we
are fragile things
and time’s hands know no delicacy

Canvas : 20th June 2019

in their countless numbers fly
the ravens cross a moonless sky
above the red house on the hill
from the days this night to kill
black is the canvas that they paint
blood red the brush from which it’s tainted
what savage artist bore this scene
is only guessed at, never seen
for when the blackbirds take to arms
no fault is claimed by those whose harm
transcends their petty palette’s slight
to condemn us cursed to this last night
and we who live and love and dream
are sacrificed to ill thought schemes

The Song

in the green wood long ago
there grew the smallest tree
and in its branches
there did grow
a bird too small
for all to see
this tiny bird it sang a song
which calmed even the wildest beast
and through the forest winter long
this little bird he sang of peace.

one morning cold in winter deep
the woodsman came with axe in hand
and as he thought which tree to reap
that song of peace rang ‘cross the land
and his wield was therein stayed
as music filled his heart now gay
never more to swing his blade
as calmed by peace he was that day.

In these times of strife and woe
of intemperate worldly wrongs
into that forest we should go
and listen to that ancient song
such innocence of form and grace
not from a great bird but the least
and in that dark and earthly place
be filled with light…
…and hope…
…and peace.