Heading for the Borders

If it wasn’t rain,

It will be;

Sooner than you know.

 

And if it hasn’t

Risen just yet,

Wait a while,

For it will …

Though it may not be visible

Even to those who have faith.

 

This is snow

Long before it was snow …

And the same snow

Long after it has fallen.

I am where my forebears dreamed

They would never be:

Above the land and looking down;

Heading for the borders of belief.

 

 

Summer Banjo

Generosity of candlelight

Reflected from grateful surfaces

Of fruit bowl planets;

Todays winds, that stilled the gentle

Tadpole breaths of unborn lambs,

Carried snow past hesitant windows

Will be gone, gone, gone:

Like the words of a song,

Like hard-to-count years in harness.

From somewhere in the

Long-possibility tomorrows

I almost hear the

Summer banjo players

Getting closer …

And I don’t need to

Check my tickets.

2/4/2013

The White

DSC00981

The white that fell
Like mushroom spores
Giddily, god-driven; endlessly
Down the skies,
Across the winds.
The white that fell;
That carpeted lawns
That changed the contours,
That blanked the colours,
That washed the sight,
That revised plans,
That altered the focus.
The white that fell
That froze the breaths
Of unfolded sheep;
Brought strangers to the window,
Magnified distance
And bent familiar routes.
The white that fell?
It’s falling still.

There are Some Illusions …

Winter dark drops its
Sharp-sudden chill
Like a heavy, studded cape
Across field, path and copse.
Moonrise wind grips
Our bones with
White-wolf fangs.

Northern rain will mate
With less-than-zero air
This December night:
Snow’s gentle manacles
Are coming to restrain us all.

But I have seen
Faith, hope and trust
In the eyes
Of Christmas youngsters –
From behind the
Beard and fairy mask –
For the first time.

There are some illusions,
Perhaps,
That we should not
Rush to destroy.

7/12/2012

Always Written

Long greyfeather clouds

Carrying blue-light poison

To the moon;

Memory’s desperate fox

Cannot help, doesn’t

Have the stretch or

The strategies.

 

“Far away, far away,”

The young ones hopefully chant –

Distracted by bright-fool images –

As though it could, ever, be enough.

 

But patient snow

Is too silver-slow.

Last night’s secrets are

Always written on the ground.

 

26/11/2012