Golden days

This day of golden December
a single swan bathed the house
in its glorious white shadow

we watched enthralled
caught between white wings
and up-springing meadow


gold slides from top to bottom
slips among dormant trees
heart can’t help but follow
full of hope.


the trees are bare
but the green
is oh so green


in the valley
where the stream runs
trees weave the night shadows

where badgers and foxes are born
and the deer wait
to lie in the quiet
of a moonlit meadow.

This cloud

december mist3

This cloud hangs heavy for all,
but I feel the weight, damp and clammy,
the hand wrapped across my mouth, muffling the cry.

Who hears in this cold sea,
where drowning trees wave their arms,
shaking birds into the sky waters?

I listen but nobody comes
to ask the way or leave a note.
Crows make their show on the wires.

Day dims as it grows into midday,
through the falling rain into evening, the swollen time
when the sun should burn the clouds bonfire red

and the world give up
its ghosts to fly owl-winged
through the rustling dark.

Phantom fog

Maymist8

 

We start the day in fog that clings so wet

And coats the trees in grey of mud made air.

Not bitter cold this solstice time and yet,

We start the day in fog that clings so wet.

With thoughts of sunlight and regret,

That winter gnaws the bones and strips them bare,

We start the day—this fog that clings so wet

Coats phantom trees in grey of mud made air.

December rain

 

Rain falls.

Silence reigns over these meadows

where brown leaves drip into the lush autumn green.

Only birds still call in the stillness,

the small twitterers,

whose lives revolve around a seed head

or a tardy insect.

Rain drips

until the frost comes,

and the seeds hide

in the cold bare lap of winter.

In this world of cold and damp dearth

which among these bright specks of hope

will see the spring?

Winter tree

1030px-Egon_Schiele_-_Autumn_Tree_in_Stirred_Air_(Winter_Tree)_-_Google_Art_Project

In the dark December tree,

Black branches bare against the sky,

Cold mist clings and drips

And the last leaves flap

The heavy, brown flags

Of summer’s surrender.

In the dark tree,

Among the dead leaves,

Robin pours his winter song,

Red throat a winter bloom,

Ember of summer fire.

The leafless tree,

Claimed by the freezing mist

And bleak hand of the north,

Fills with music.

I close my eyes

And the bite of the cold

For the space of a song

Is a little less deep.