If you, too, find this season
sometimes tinged
with melancholy,
I send you a bouquet
picked from my garden
at summers end.
Sunlight turned
to structure,
beauty in the seeds
of tomorrow.
Category: Poems
The light catchers
Stepping out
of the seasonal rush,
drivers stop
by the estuary edge.
–
Together we pause,
momentarily,
to catch the light
as it fades.
Mountaintops glow orange.
Dawn reflecting
on November snow.
River of wings
It starts with a drip, a drop, a splash
as a handful of starlings zoom past my window,
causing me to glance up from the computer screen.
I get back to work, but then
the trickle becomes a stream
and holds me, mesmerized.
Pulses, waves of flickering, fluttering birds,
hundreds, then thousands.
I cannot help but marvel,
following them with my eyes as they streak past,
just one tributary of a giant river of wings,
following them with my mind
to the nearby reedbeds
where they will join, and dance.
Thousands upon thousands coordinated
in breathtaking choreography
until on some secret signal
they descend to the reeds to roost.
Outside my window the river slows to a trickle
For a while, small flocks of stragglers whizz by
just drips and drops as darkness falls.
Sleep tight, little birds.
Evening practice.
Ten mindful breaths
beneath the stars.
I am breathing in the cold night air
as goose calls drift up from the estuary.
We share the same moonlight.
A gift
If I could bottle this feeling
of deep relaxed contentment
from an hour and a half
of mindful movement,
I would send it to you
with all my love.
Wild Cat Island
We adored the place. Coming to it we used to run down to the lake, dip our hands in and wish, as if we had just seen the new moon. Going away from it, we were half drowned in tears. No matter where I was, wandering about the world, I used at night to look for the North Star and, in my minds eye, could see the beloved skyline of great hills beneath it.
Arthur Ransome
Floating in the perfect
rock channel harbour
of Wild Cat
Island of my imagination
and childhood reading.
Today I didn’t land
but basked in the sun
reflecting on half forgotten dreams,
happy that a life where this place
is just down the road
was one dream
I made happen.
And I wonder if there are
other dreams from younger days
buried in the habits of adulthood,
shadow realities
which I could choose to bring to life.
The autumn equinox approaches
Sometimes, I wish
I could just fly south
with the birds.
Treasure
set free
from the pages of an old notebook.
Life in the Fresh Air 