Poetry Blogs (Yesterday's Weather)
I scaled the heights, and let me
confess now of their beauty;
razor-sharp rock, heather coarse,
blown fibres from a rainy north.
Sitting on the edge of these
steps, in a vigorous breeze,
the land falls away, time’s plaything,
whilst eons fade on the wind’s wing.
Valleys, cities, factories, spires
of churches, through a foggy mire;
questions floating through my head,...
Wednesday 7th May 2014 7:27 pm
I didn’t know what it was like
in the sea, I only imagined
cold, depth, darkness;
a sliver of the unknown;
‘The Inchcape Rock’ – Peter Graham,
1908, that which stayed
pinned to my father’s wall;
a navy blanket slung careless, crumpled.
And strange to think
at sunrise, the mist would seem
to cover, then to clear, and wave
for the gulls to pass on through,
Sunday 20th April 2014 5:11 pm
Frozen, they placed heavy footprints
on hard-packed foliage, etched ice;
the withered bark stretched around
in slanting lines, near-collapsing.
Moving these weights, one step, two;
these notions in a February mist;
regrets like the broken skies above,
where clouds drift dark with mingled smoke
from fires marking from whence they came.
But no scars give away their cr...
Sunday 13th April 2014 5:02 pm
Once, upon, a time…
Is that how it went?
And did it follow that
those allotted words, those
mined from the red hot
pits of thought,
shaped and resized;
tamed, wearily eyed?
And there, in a large,
our hero, spending days
pacing halls too big for
the right adjectives to name.
They sit, press their
flickering hands together
Friday 4th April 2014 11:06 pm
I stepped slow, drunkenly down
a half-shadowed rough road at noon;
no more than a sliver of dust,
a dirt track, borders pale in ruin.
No labour it was, but pleasant,
above a sky of summer blue;
yet autumn’s grasp it lay upon
the boughs, branches; a breezy tune.
And in a glade of silver hue,
of spider webs and thrushes’ nests;
beyond, there boomed in stereo,...
Friday 28th March 2014 10:54 pm
I find, always, when looking out
of your window, I can see
what has come, has gone and what
is yet to be.
Rain, sun, and rain, perhaps merely
a seasonal thing;
a tempest of sorts before the tide
unclasps its cling
on a battered shoreline.
Beyond the sea,
behind the smeared glass
a new dawn tempts me
to rouse you from your sleep;
whispering sounds like fr...
Sunday 16th March 2014 3:09 pm