All Swans …

 

There’s a fire

Somewhere near;

I cannot see it

But I smell the smoke.

Somebody’s burning

Old secrets again;

A little grey to add

To the snow.

All swans were white,

The universal truth …

Until we learned

That they weren’t.

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.

 

 

Not Consciously Invited

I am here,

Though not consciously invited:

Red-ghost guest

At year’s-end party.

I quicken mascaraed pulses,

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

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

 

Those That Trust …

Those that trust the

Machines that look for

Patterns and make

Predictions

Forecast snow later today.

 

Those who use the

Statistics stored in the

Records to point the

Finger of blame

Say it’s all my fault:

That I travelled too far

On holidays;

Kept my family too warm,

Bought food out of season –

Because it was available:

All wrong!

 

Those who trawl the

Programs, pretending to

make sense of data are

Forecasting blizzards

This evening.

 

What do they want

Us to do?

Panic?

There’s nothing wrong –

And many things right –

About snow

 

As far as I’m concerned

We all have

Something we can learn:

If we dare …

If we care …

Beware!

 

12/3/2012