Passing Away

golden ash

 

Autumnal glory, haloed gold,

Crown of splendour from of old;

Dying embers, kingdom come,

Truthful speech from ashen drum.

Advertisements

Songs of Spring

sunsetdrift.jpg

 

you are my vernal equinox

I lean in to your warmth

frozen places stir, blink

in the brilliance

hope blooms sure, like

snow destined to saturate

the soil, singing songs

of spring

 

The Keys

piano keys

When the hard work came

and fingers fell flat

in dyslexic stumbles

at the stern reminders

of the metronome

who eyed her sharply

over dog-eared pages,

it didn’t feel as though

she had been handed

the keys to the kingdom.

It would take thousands

of chromatic notes to scale

that mountain, thousands

of butchered melody lines

to bind chords of muscle memory

and visual acuity into

harmonious union,

inversions ringing

as theory sang its way

into practise.

She couldn’t tell you

when the notes began to stir

something more than

soured milk in her soul,

when the melodies

sank into her bones

and played her heart-strings

in tones of salvation songs;

all she knows is that

these keys have unlocked

Rapunzel’s gate,

releasing the Muse,

and fingering their well-worn

skin ignites her own

with a song

that beats in her breast

with the sound

of her own

pulse.

Once, When Looking Up

yellow aspen

I see You there, covering

me – a cathedral ceiling

of finespun gold, aspen-boughs

crowning my way with glory.

.

I hear You in the whisper,

silent assignations passed

from one trembling yellow throat

to another, gentle sighs.

.

I feel Your gaze rocking me sweet,

and I breathe, slow and deep, pause

mid-stride to rest in dappled

acceptance, cherished by shade.

.

You are here. You, Your essence,

Your presence – it sings, sunshine

in shadow, gold filigree

on an altar made of wood.

.

Splintered, I crack open. Your

notes rustle in my veins, seep

past knots, and I’m rooted here,

utterly, completely me.

Bringing in the Sheaves

blackbird harvest

 

Sing a song of harvest,

A sheaf of golden rye;

Four and twenty blackbirds

Taking to the sky.

Sing a song of plenty,

Of food that’s gathered in;

Heralding the season

That stores so much within.

 

 

And She Dances

lollipop.jpg

 

Light, robed in fabric

satin-spun with sun-beams,

sways – swirls, extends

muscles and feet

.

in secretive dance

upon stage soft as

silk. Her music is

the subtle sigh of lonesome

.

 

pines, the cadence of

songbirds greeting the

dawn, the rustle of

feathers in flight;

 

she delights in this

moment, this filament of time

hung on summer breeze,

and she dances. Her

.

body melts into

nature’s melody – is

electrified by its pulse,

consumed by its rhythm,

.

choreographed by its

raw emotion. She lets go,

jubilation in every line,

and she dances.