Wisps

Ghostly ribbons

Placed above the meadows in a brushstroke

Caught with sloping certainty

of yellow morning.

 

Watery armies

marshall fading incursions

in to cold air,

gently curling ice cream twirling

suggestions of matter.

 

The soft grey floor of blue night comforts this thin facade

of slanting rays

today

spins toward the source.

 

Before departure

A late summer malaise

Illuminating long evening shadow rays.

Battered butter flies flap

desperate faded papery muddles

Threshed by the fresh force

giving voice to the leaves’ last days

Trees roaring like the ocean

Beating in the new tide

 

 

If I were a man (with an eggtooth)

My youth was spent shoring up holes

around my soul.

In these early days of autumn,

mists obscure the fear

of darkness

creeping through the walls of green.

Sun made leaves

falling, tumbling

exposing

nothing

but everything.

 

As if the sky could fall away

outwards.

I would have preferred Truman’s dome

the shell

Blame Copernicus for this hell

Exposed to the heavens.

I spend my adult life taking down the wall,

packing it away again.

Pipping through the moon

to the light from the outside.

Consuming the shell to nourish my bones.

To become what I already am.

 

Towards

A semi senescent beech leaf flaps

cross the half mown round lawn

like an old fashioned flip clock

Steady warm wind impelling

Gently

Forcing

Fresh blood beads

Bleeds from hawthorn grazed greens

Plucking

silent summer feathers tumbling towards

The last months of the year

Only for them to snag

On spider spun filaments of september sun