Category: fire and water

The spirit of winter flows

through the memory of

water molecules and

earth atoms; visits the land

with reminders of richness;

preparation that comes

before all new beginnings;

with celebrations of hope

contained within each unique

cycle of life.

Black on black

rain from a night sky

and the bluster;

noises off.

Twigs and small branches

ride on the river;

the wet world

glistens; bows

under the Turpin moon

as chaos pants

and chases through

the sleeping valley.

Finding ice on still water,

confirmation of winter;

and frost icing the tangle

of brown weeds dying beside

the still emerald greenness;

and the day, needing lighting,

takes me down, down where sunshine

is a private affair; down

where discipline is the life

that counters the grey, oppressed

isolation that threatens.

So, from here on in, the year

revolves around discipline

The wind, fierce and bitter, power gusted;

willows lurched and swayed. Breath snatched from my face

hair shocked and tangled, I watch the river,

now clear, gather speed, smooth out lazy weed

in long silken strands of green; absorb lines

of almost frozen rain. I watch the flow,

the out of body sensation as breath

and water swirl away. Gone. Look away.

Look away and back, gasping thin cold air.

Time to abandon spring green,

time to reveal the cloth of gold

rubies, amber and fire opals,

Time to admit the true shape,

the true desires,

the burning fire.

Time.

Time to know that spring green

awaits a blanket of gold

to hibernate. Rubies, amber,

and fire

await. A cycle.

A life

time.

I watched as rain levelled the river

in a light, strange grey, echoing the

damp, hard to define colour of sky.

Under my umbrella I remained

dry, but increasingly cold; soaked in

misery more chilling than water;

allowing the spirit of leaving

water to slide away with my heart,

all on the off-chance that you might be

passing and notice the fluttering.

Notice and reach out through the strangeness,

wherever it is that passing hearts fly.

Slow, slow, no quick, the khaki coloured water

slid imperceptibly away from the old town;

empty water, silent, soulless and somehow sad,

She sat playing at the edge of the river,

her guitar across her knees, the case at her feet;

sound spilling wide quickened the life and the flow,

and the slow, slow twirled to a waltz, an elegant

race, a folksy tangle of upended ducks;

the swan appeared, the khaki cleared, as sound

sparkled and soft, danced its way through the air;

the spirit of music awakening life in the river.

I looked for her face, for the face I knew so well,

saw resolution, and unfamiliar dreams.

Night comes early, warm yet, as the sun

heated earth glows under a melting moon;

firmament of meandering stars, all

lost, wandering wild as love through the dark;

a reminder that some love is

On Sunday autumn shone in the river,

Have you signed our petition?

To save the meadows?

Well not exactly… I did

sign up to something

online. I’ve blogged and written

poetry. Written

protesting to the council.

The plan to build homes

over the land that

absorbs, holds, the floodwater

is plainly absurd.

But of course, common sense plays

no part in this brawl.

Money screams much louder than

any kind of sense.

But still money cannot speak

with the river.