An evening like so many others,
too many passed to ever count, pointing at the clouds that rib the sandy sky in the blue and gold of end of day.
Too many passed to ever count,
the days we’ve shared, the nights, and the different child hands that we’ve held,
pointing at the clouds that rib the sandy sky.
The ocean above we paddle, light as laughter, sailing our full barque where songbirds flit
in the blue and gold at end of day,
apple light of moon and sun, where evening’s done and all our dreams begun.
Not a sound
but the bent grasses straightening where I have trod
nothing in the wind
but the smell of dead leaves and fox
no pain I hear the hush of dusk.
In the rainy dark
the pale faces of marguerites
blow in unseen winds
and the oak trees billow ominous
at dusk and dusk to dawn
the dark hangs swollen with rain
and births the morning
in joyous flood.
Evening falls and falls
until the glow of gloaming turns to gloom of night,
yet there is always light somewhere
to bridge the dark,
in eyes where stars settle, pearls,
in pools of limpid water silvered by the moon.
I dip my hand into the water.
Your smile ripples back.
Cloud piled on cloud
compressing the breathless air below
pressing the sun
below the horizon
waiting for the moon
in gaudy pinks.
Lately, the weather has been wind, rain, storm, sun, repeat. From my desk, in the angle between two windows, I see the changing sky and how the wind and rain set the air in motion. Each evening, the wind drops, the sun comes out and I can hear the birds rather than the wind sighing. Straight ahead, I look west.
and over my left shoulder, I look out of the south-facing window.
and if I go to the south window and look right, this is what I see.
The sky and the trees are in constant movement, but I love the peace that falls at the end of the day.
calm as a still lake
at dusk when swans roost and
make the air tremble with
their ceaseless song
When the orioles
no longer nest in the poplars
and the roe deer
no longer find shelter beneath them
when the last hare
leaps in a death dance
and the nightingale
has no reason to sing
I will regret I ever saw this land
as it is now
sinking into dusk.
in the may sun
the hedge is singing
where did sorrow go?
slantwise beneath the clouds
field of red gold
suddenly the dark
gold softens to grey singing
birds still singing as if the
stars were not enough
Bees’ drone has faded
jaded dreams have fled
bled into the clouds
shrouds of grey.
Day fades into night
light changes to dark
lark song stilled
spilled into the bloody earth
worth more than rubies.
It has rained almost all day. My pulled muscle is still killing me. This san san describes this evening.
Evening falls, dark hides the falling rain;
Nightingale still sings in rain-dark hedge
That drips and water-trickles as light fades.
Songs and rivulets of water-sound fall
Bright, though day has gone, feather-soft and sweet
As birdsong in the hedge, brushed and hushed by dusk.
Sing the night away, brown bird; let music rain
With evening hues to smudge the sky with dawn.