my heart is made of little birds
though they cannot soar, they fly
in ways that winds can fathom not
and through the hardest rains reply
by taking wing despite the days
that try in vain to spirits break
so in my heart these birds do sing
and of its clay a soul can make.
poet
Life.
what is life
but the daylight in midwinter
when for but the briefest time
the last songbirds sing
and the low sun
gives us hope
of yet another spring.
the morning sun is come
the morning sun is come
to paint the robin red
and daub the shadows golden
which take me from my bed
but as I rise to greet him
the dreams of you remain
and though the night is cast away
no thought of you could wane
so the morning sun is come
and lights the dawn anew
but like the robin on his breast
I wear red dreams of you.
Process
this disjointed mind
finding broken metaphors
in torn up poems
Lines On A Summer Morning
joy lives in the cuckoo’s call
that echoes on this woodland morn
extolling to us one and all
that spring has mothered summer born.
June 19, 2021
Lychgate
keep the lychgate free for me
that I may spend eternity
somewhere ‘twixt the day and night
that place where wing-ed dreams take flight
not quite life but not yet death
in the measure of my final breath.
A Time To Sow
once written
in longhand
on a small piece
of yellow paper
these lines
I plan on
planting
deep
in the moist
welcoming
earth
behind the house
in the hope
(for poets still believe in hope despite ourselves)
that come
the summer’s end
new words of
wonderful colours
and ideas fragrant
are mine to harvest
for the fall.
Untitled Notes on Writer’s Block
there is silence save birdsong
and darkness save this shaded light
there’s a blank white page before me
that waits on me to write,
there are no thoughts within me
save those I have of you
how can I them in conscience fair
with meagre words imbue.
so I hear beyond the silence
and drift into the dark
to set my pen in readiness
before I make my mark.
Dream Figure
among a thousand ravens wings
death walked o’er the field
his cloak blood soaked from troubled earth
upon which souls did yield
their lives to axe and spear and sword
and hatred without sense
but this dark figure judged them not
he sought but recompense.
Ruin
would I yield to thee?
if so then my heart is lost
oh! but what ruin.
