Member
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Join Date: Jul 2015
Location: Guiseley,West Yorkshire,England
Posts: 165
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Member
Join Date: Jul 2015
Location: Guiseley,West Yorkshire,England
Posts: 165
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Firefly jars +
Firefly jars
The days fading heat melts the air.
into the amber wash of twilight fall
and with a brush like breeze so fair.
then thinly paints the cottage wall,
as across the bay escapes a song,
almost lost upon the water stilled,
to weave amongst shadows long,
as all with summer's scent is filled.
While above, the darkening sweep,
can now reveal those early stars,
glittering facets dispensing sleep
and infant dreams of firefly jars.
Beech
The colour of limes, cooling in shade,
appears, seemingly as watched,
to feather the venous cradle
of branchlets with downy leaves,
that hint of suede, and curl up or back
when buffeted by winds of late spring.
Some flashing their modesty, their underside,
while others part gently,
like a child's hair being combed by
a doting mother,
startling the sparrows and finches
about their work within,
who are rendered
briefly quiescent, until
the lunge and parry
of their beaks returns.
Beach storm
As if tethered to the above,
the sea was drawn back,
back beyond sight and sound,
until there was nothing but sand
yielding to footprints, which blurred,
and sank between blinks,
and bits of errant sea
caught in shallow dips while others
formed rivulets to hasten
after the rest.
Into this nothing the sky dropped,
smothering all with shades of steel
and iron, weeping rain such that
soon it may leave no room for the
returning tide, its fury tumbling
the spray laden air, lips glanced
by its salt spiced edge, darkening
dunes until they caked and fell.
I have seen fog congested forest
and sheets of sleet cutting
across pasture,
and found beauty,
I could not honour this place so.
Lover or friend
Would you leave tomorrow's tale
a virgin sheet,
on which no pattern of life,
by hand encrypted, will lie,
and future meet........
such that I must ask of others also, were you real?.....
or has memory jumbled truth
with wishful want, erroneous sight
and false feeling.
Your scent is freed
as I press your clothes to my face,
yet no print of a lover confused, stains them from garment
into shroud of filigree lace.
Perhaps it is I who would bring
this story to its end,
who would write a final chapter,
if so, I would know with certainty
whether the premiss past
was lover or friend.
Burden
My burden is greatest at sundown,
before evening smudges the sky
with charcoal fingers,
when Swift and Swallow, soar on
warm summer risings,
freer than silver bellied shoals that
flare their brightness as one,
in a dark that is as clay to air,
and draw my sight to lift and
fly amongst them............
and when dogs wonder about
a last walk of the day,
and mothers shout ten minute warnings to tired kids that
won't come in, but marry
the warm day's slowing,
regaling past glories and games
of endless playtimes,.............
when life's set-backs did not exist,
and the approach of night's vagaries,
heavy with intention to make sport with
troubled minds was a fear never felt.
The sweetest drink
She is delightfully lost to all,
in her small garden kitchen
as she makes dinner for a family waiting for time to catch up.
It looks like pine cone stew
she stirs, in between picking
buttercups for afters,
enjoying make-believe tea,
with those I cannot see.
Her tiny face tells the story
as lips purse and pout in
mime, telling proof of the way
grown-ups can sometimes be.
She then looks up with a start,
a smile exploding before me,
I'm offered an imaginary cup,
and my first sip made me think,
it was by far the sweetest drink.
Dead bird
Huddled kids await the moon,
hoods tilted to the ground,
there by the hopscotch rune,
all forlorn without a sound.
One grabbed a shed lent stick,
to move the sky fallen form,
with a silent funeral flick
under the threatened storm
A hole was scraped by spade
for wings that no longer soar,
stone marked in daisy shade
the grave for a bird no more.
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