Posts tagged ‘seasons’

02/10/2013

Station in the Rain

 

These autumn rains, these Hopper blues,

These destinations, stations passed,

These memories which have yet to form,

These tricks which gather up the night.

 

Each isolation – neon stained –

Is captured in its gleaming feint,

Is held, unique, in slow decent:

From state to state, from hope to spent.

 

And you: I wonder how you took

The morning – made it live again,

And glow again (if only once,

If only through electric eyes).

 

You took a crossing point in time,

And found a voice for rain and light.

 

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

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30/09/2013

Transhumance

 

Above the tree line of the soul,

Where air is thin and minds can float,

She sparks her memory, speaks her loss.

She moves through pastures draped in blooms.

 

And there she lives her ghostly life,

She watches shadows cast on clouds

Which gather on the valley floor.

She knows the turn and flow of things.

 

But further up, beyond her gaze,

The bells of cattle ring the peaks,

The gentians stain the petaled sky,

The crystals carve the rainbow’s curve.

 

Her soul awaits the season’s change,

With buttermilk and waterfalls.

 

04/07/2013

Pipit – Lapwing – Swallow – Chaffinch

 

Up on the moor tops, fields are cut,

And soon the berries will be ripe.

Amongst the heather, pipit rich,

The tewits fake their broken wings.

 

I think too hard about the words.

The sun is low and burns the eyes.

The dry stone walls form broken lines.

I hear the words, but cannot write.

 

And down below, the dale is dark,

Its words are carved on whispered stones.

Around the empty chapel hall

The swallows coax unwilling young.

 

So this is summer in the north:

A chaffinch calls at mottled skies.

 

 

18/05/2013

The Primrose Bank

 

The primrose bank was April sun.

Beneath a hawthorn, robin rich,

With sad, sweet, dappled songs of light,

The primrose bank was every spring.

 

And every spring the petals poured

Their golden cadence gleaned from years,

From melodies of pastel tints,

From wood, to beck, to changing skies.

 

The verses flick rebirths of time,

Their delicate and shuttling lines

Which called on rains to fill their voice:

And voices filled, and sun rejoined.

 

The primrose bank is life to you,

The robin’s song is always new.

 

 

23/04/2013

The Bud

 

Do not delay, don’t wait for word,

The spring will burst the tightest buds

Without you. Summer dries the stream

Without you. Autumn takes the breath

 

Of swallows – late to leave. And death

Will strike with winter ice and waste

The final throes of sun, and then

You’ll miss your time to effervesce.

 

Do not be caught in thoughts of lives

Which could have meant much more than this,

Which could have been, but passed you by.

The buds are leaves, are mould, are gone,

 

And you are watching as they dry.

Become the leaf, return to bud.