on the wooden screen

 

on the wooden screen

the shadows

of a sycamore

move

in the breeze

 

A rose was lost amongst the trees.

I hear your voice above the street:

It’s been so long, but still you speak.

The shadows move and hide the rose.

 

The clouds are made of hills and you wait beneath the hills, above the snow line, up where the words begin to lose their worth.

 

And now I feel the stillness flow,

And radiate, then settle down.

The fight against this life was lost.

This life, this moving stillness cast.

 

In photographs

you are never still. You took a pose and shifted weight, and smiled as if the smile meant more than being

 

The weight we carry on these feet,

That plank of wood on which we lye:

Can emptiness be hard to bear?

These shadows on a wooden screen.

 
Deep in a valley –

so deep you wouldn’t know it was there from above

–          the spring flowers came just a little later than elsewhere.

 

The rose grew taller in the dark.

A blackbird sang, a robin sang:

A calling for a distant sun.

The rose would reach it, inch by inch.

 

This is not about forgetting, nor resting, nor putting by. This living here is never done, amongst the hills, amongst the trees. The snows of late spring never last more than a day or two.

 

The shadows of a sycamore

Are patterns of a gentle breeze,

Are patterns of a distant sun,

Are here, are now, and always so.

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10 Comments to “on the wooden screen”

  1. Good to see you back! 🙂

  2. So nice to read your beautiful poetry again.

  3. It’s been a long time since your lovely poems arrived in my inbox. It’s a welcome return.

  4. Excellent!

  5. I am sorry to learn of your loss, but glad to see your poetry again. Wishing you peace ~ M

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