Roses at dusk

Roses at dusk

Pale as pale flesh,
tissue-fragile,
roses at dusk bend and bow
beneath the weight of memories
of dead fingers tending,
beneath the weight of the world,
the weight of the day’s sun,
the weight of the waiting stars.

Gogyohka: autumn rain

I look for light where there is none,

taste the wind

for a salt memory of the sea

and touch the wild grasses

for the fleeting presence of a hare

 

wind blows

full of damp grey ribbons of cloud

streaks and shafts of steely grey

rain-wet and dew-wet

and a scattering of noisy finches

 

dusk seeps and creeps

beneath the cloud

between the rain drops

among the raggedy grass soldiers

still standing

In the dusk of the year

 

In the dusk of the year

we stand wreathed in flying leaves

and restless skies watching

the dark half of the year turn closer

remembering the cold that bites

beneath snow-filled cloud

and our dreams full of fire.

 

In the twilight of all things that matter

we lie down on scorched grass

and watch the storm clouds gather.

No rainbows will follow this deluge

no ark no saving graces.

No dawn will follow this night

of no moon and no stars.

 

Night falls

and falls

 

and

 

 

falls

 

 

~fin~

 

 

Lamp light

 

From the dead tree a moon hangs

between poplar and oak,

between night and day,

and all this light floods the fields

in gentle waters, silent night songs,

sentinel of the dusk,

twilight beacon,

lighting the woodpecker home.

Haiku sequence

nightingale

singing too hard to notice

the sun has set

 

sky blue as thunder

and silent as starfall

above my head

 

nights so full of light

and song dawn seems almost

superfluous

 

come the morning

shadows shrink taking their

secrets home

 

waking to light

and the last star awake

night still in my eyes

 

Walking at dusk

 

Walk in blue dusted with gold

specked with white and drops of sky.

Walk softly where the cradle of grass

trembles

and hearts beat in fear.

Walk past and let things be.

Winter sunset

This winter evening

when spring creeps and thrusts

through earth running bright

with rainwater,

the birds are singing

their wild songs

of love and battles

and the return of the sun.

Walking at dusk

Walking at dusk,

When mist rolls down from darkening hills.

Walking at dusk,

Stirring scents of dog wood musk,

Leaf-damp shadow the hollows fills—

I listen as a bird still trills,

Walking at dusk.

Dusk swoops

 

Dusk swoops and skims on owl wings,

grey in failing light where the deer,

faint leaping slender shadows

fill the trees with husky barking.

Bat-flutter and frog-laughter,

cricket-throb and the soft sinking of the sun;

such peace when the nightingale sings.

Dusk

Along the border of the field,

A hedge of briar and robins’ wings

And pierced with secret tracks of fox

And badger—this is where I walk.

 

By the stream beneath the willows

I listen as the world falls silent,

As owl and fox reclaim their own—

I leave the dusk to those who stalk.