Fog

 

Beneath autumn trees

so bright with orange light

crackling over lush golden grass

we are rocked in gentle pastels

colours of childhood songs

and remembered places.

 

Fog grows

from the night ground

the hush of withheld breath

and covers the house

like a gloved hand

pressed over

a screaming mouth.

 

 

 

Advertisements

Owl 4

When the dark is complete

so that feet

stray from grassy path

the sky

echoes with shivers

and I

hear an owl speak.

I

weary of this life that never eases

into plenitude and yellow dawns,

where mist is décor, dreamy drapes,

not the cold rags of winter,

encroaching with brittle

fingers, brittle bones;

long for spring, the

green light at

the pier’s

end.

 

A nonet for Colleen’s prompt—Try & Live

Not as old as the hills

This is a poem for an unwanted birthday. I have more than I know what to do with.

 

Not as old as the hills

but old enough to know better,

old enough to do most things,

old enough not to care,

about hair, how it looks today

or ever.

 

When you are old and grey

then so will I be too,

and nodding by the fire

could be hazardous.

This old dog

will still be learning new tricks—

fire fighting may be one.

Oh, Mathusalem,

where is your handbook?

With death’s sting?

 

These woods are very old,

and the stones;

even the grass

has old roots.