In the land of midnight

Painting Edward Simmons

In the land of midnight,
Sand trickles black into an inky sea,
Reflecting the darkness of deep space,
That swallows the light of the stars.
In the land of midnight,
Water runs silent and swift,
Cascading in mists of darkness,
Into chasms, kelp-green, endless as the earth,
Echoing with mer-laughter.


Land of midnight fades,
Dark water, sand sliding,
Furrowed and tressed and tinged with gold,
Slipping through anguished fingers,
For in the land of morning,
Gold, pink, impossibly fierce, sunlit,
That hurts the eye, crackling dry,
Brilliance of diamond dew, exploding flame-hot,
You are not.

She walks through the empty morning

Painting by Van Gogh

In the cool of the morning,

I walk beneath the roses,

Light sifted pink and white,

Perfume dripping with the dew.

Birch tree drips with birdsong,

Falling in dapples about my feet.

I walk, and the mist parts,

Rising from the river into the blue air.

I walk, listening to the quiet rush

Of the tressed water,

Tangling and untangling,

On its way to the sea.

In the cool wind from the west, I walk,

Listen to the silence falling,

At my back the sun rises,

At my face the rising wind.

Wind from the sea in my face,

And instead of the honey of your lips,

I taste the salt,

Though I cannot tell,

Perhaps it is the taste of my tears.

Black silk and white morning

Painting by Max Jensen

Only the blackest of silk will do
To wrap my sorrow in,
To line a wooden casket,
So none of it escapes.
I set it in the water,
Balanced on a wave tip,
Tide enfolds it in compassion,
Guides it gently over rock and reef.
I watch the box of sadness,
Slip into the darkness
That fills the sleeping world,
Beyond the wave-nipped horizon.
When the long watches of the night
Are over and the light of day returns,
The ink-dark sea is empty,
But the sky is all aflutter
With white gull wings,
Colour of morning, sea foam splendid,
Bearing hope out of the east.

Short poems for a bright spring morning

Painting by Edvard Munch

All awakenings
Should be shot with gladness,
Like the first dawn blush
In the eastern sky,
And the song of the first bird.

* * *

Rising sun reaches
Between scattered clouds,
Tears the tattered veil of morning,
Turns shadows into light.

* * *

Buds swell,
Green spring
Creeps slowly to eclosion,
And in the promise
Of blossom and summer scents,
Are all of autumn’s falling leaves.

* * *

When first we met,
And we were young,
We took life easy
As a summer’s day.
We gave no thought
How seasons turn,
And winter’s never far away.

Morning by the lake

Poem inspired by the painting, this beautiful mild winter’s day, and mixed feelings about what next.

Sun rises behind the mountains.

Light streams

Casting a mist of gold dust

On still waters.

The air sings,

I lick my finger,

Hold it to the breeze.

Gold dust clings,

Coating my hand in glory.

I raise my face to the sky,

Eyes fill with the turquoise

Of a robin’s egg.

Feet tread the water’s edge,

Sinking in the silver sand

Where the dreams of ages lie,

Sifting their memories in the soft depths.

Light streams still

Over the purple peaks,

And gold dust and the robin’s song

Weave tresses of happiness.

Tepid on my bare feet,

Water washes back and forth

Whispering stories from the farther shore.

Will I dare to brave the beauty

And break the harmony,

Shatter the colours of the still, placid lake

With my frantic splashing?

Morning flight

 

In the early morning

Doves fly on silver wings

Into the eastern sky.

I, earthbound hang on the stone sill

Beneath the limpid blue

And wonder if doves too long to find

The magical place of golden light

That lies beyond the commonplace

Where it is always morning.

 

Photo © Michael Lemmon

The light of the morning

 

The light of the morning wakened me

And the song of the blackbird in the tree.

I close my eyes to the mocking beams

My ears to the song sung not for me.

I cannot bear the sweetness of the day

That fills with light the empty space

So full of passion until you left

Saying this could never be your place.

The morning breaks on broken dreams

And scattered fragments sharp as any thorn

For you have gone without a backward glance

The love I seeded in your heart stillborn.

You never heard the blackbird’s morning song

And never felt the flutter of my heart.

You never felt it sink into your own

Nor its grieving when you tore them both apart.

Morning breaks

 

The light of the morning wakened me

And the song of the blackbird in the tree.

I close my eyes to the mocking beams

My ears to the song sung not for me.

I cannot bear the sweetness of the day

That fills with light the empty space

So full of passion until you left

Saying this could never be your place.

The morning breaks on broken dreams

Their scattered fragments sharp as any thorn

For you have gone without a backward glance

The love I seeded in your heart stillborn.

You never heard the blackbird’s morning song

And never felt the flutter of my heart.

You never felt it sink into your own

Nor its grieving when you tore them both apart.

Breathe the morning

From the window
I see the roofs stretch far and orange brown
To nudge the blue skyline.
I hear the morning stillness
The cool green hush that rises from the garden
Vine-hung
Waiting for the sun.
I smell cypress and pine
And the musky smell of damp earth
Of decomposing aromatic leaves.
I breathe the pale blue air
Tasting all the facets of the morning picture.
Remembering its delicate flavour
Its cool pastel tones
The gentle crooning of the turtle doves
To savour when the brash sun burns
And stirs the noisy life
Beneath the orange brown rooftiles.

Moon magic

This morning we woke to a beautiful sky. In my six o’clock state I barely registered it before going back to sleep, but husband was inspired enough to take a pic. Not brilliant because it’s a rubbish camera, but the sky really was hazy like that, and the moon really did shine yellow with light reflected from the sun.

In the calm of early morning
When the sky’s suffused with mellow golden light
The sun is barely over the world’s rim
And the earth retains the memory of the night.
Turning slowly from the clinging dark
The earth rolls and draws across the lightening sky
A yellow moon as bright as a winter sun
That shines onto the bed where I still lie.
If only I could hold it in my heart
The subtle magic that transforms this urban scene
Pouring soothing silver over every wound
As if the years of pain had never been.