patience in a rainless world

Where is this hard line?

Through forest, over hill,

And across water I’m told

By the old men, gathered along

The river bar, waiting years for a fish

To be caught so they might move on

To the open fields to spend their days

Released from those toils.

.

That thin, frail string stretched

Through dark woods, and

Mirroring the sky,

Where the hard line of a storm

Challenges a stale afternoon.

.

The jagged line of rocks against water,

And the silent boils, softening a long seam

Where currents meet, reunited:

Partnering again in their purpose

As they explore a single winding path

To the place where land ends

And the great depth of the sea begins.

In the Time of the Solstice

How you might slip into this light

Lured from bedtime curfews,

Signatory of winter,

With it’s wet ink faded into those days,

Remembered now in the tender branches

Still sliding through the wind.

.

Ever freshening days,

Alive,

With new things illumed,

In this one last moment

Before it all pulls us in

Returning us, gently,

Into the rhythm of our souls.

Winter’s Grace by the Numbers

How might I count the days?

.

By the sounds of rain

On a field at night?

.

Or should I tally mornings

Of fickle, teasing light,

On the edges of storms?

.

Could it be the screeching egret,

High overhead in dark skies,

Framing chilling air into promises

Of frosty tinkerings.

.

How might I add these days?

Where a single leaf,

Bright star fluttering,

Shuffles to rest,

To dream in the soft cradle of spring.

A Climate Lament

My sweet river

Where have you gone?

.

I knew you

Of bygone places

Wrapped in icy mornings

Beyond time.

.

Sweet songs of your seasons

Passing stories

Like childrens secrets,

Magical and suprising,

Refreshingly indifferent.

.

That was us.

.

Among your soft curves,

bantering about,

Often silenced in reveries,

While whispers passed across

Your eyes

Sparkling of emerald dreams.

.

Not you,

Not me,

But this.

.

Different now

In a sadness.

Lost

In the bony grip

of a relentless routine

Unrehearsed

And unwelcome.

Framing the Wind – a first draft before it all goes away

How the light catches this corner of the kitchen now.

Some effusive glow that might have left us spellbound

And captive to a late afternoon pause.

But that corner hides dust and crumbs

Winters droppings and excuses and dark things.

.

This time there will be no pagan contemplation

Of this full circle before us.

No, this light pulls us away from the long dark

Where we lived maybe close within ourselves,

Intimate

In a way that accumulated warmth and a dim light can do,

Pulling you in while tempting you out

In short fidgety bouts.

.

Now, with almost forgotten suddenness,

Light piles through the window

Like the first time

When it pulled us out there.

A long ways from there.

.

And once out that door,

A long ways from here.

Convinced there were ghosts out there.

This is that time:

.

The long fetch up the hill:

Landscapes of new Spring grass

Flailing and moving.

Ever with the hard line of something

Hidden just over the hill

Waiting to knock at that broad, dark door.

Light now streaking through its edges.

Cheshire Winter

I remember tracing

Across the pale silvery worlds

Of sharpened sounds

Lit by January moons.

.

Curse you,

Impatient rain,

And how you fidget!

.

Casting this land

Into a great serpentine lapse,

Of water and light

With everything sparkling

On a mid-winter’s night.