cassie58

In an ice splintered twilight

Sits dark in the gloam,

A bird on a wire

the others have flown.

Perhaps they've migrated

And left it alone?

So I think of the city

And its burnished, bright lights

And the plight of the homeless,

Forgotten at night,

As they huddle for cover

And keep out of sight.

I ponder on faces

of the Mothers who birthed,

The ones who have nothing

on this cold planet Earth,

And the lesson I've learned,

If your face doesn't fit,

Your prospects and future

Are worthless as spit.

Swan Song

I hold my breath,

white death downstream.

Our swans are dying.

Within sight of castle walls,

by Eton's bank, February cold,

Winter dank.

Planes flying overhead,

heart hurting dead,

motionless.

I find I am crying.

tears for years I have known them.

As a child, I danced, entranced

to Tchaikovsky.

I would listen to the fall of stylus

on to shiny grooved,

Dad's dust free,

as I entered another place,

My place.

Swan Lake,

I ache for the dying,

I ache for the fate of our swans

as Avian flu

pursues blindly through their ranks

like black plague.

I stare into the glare of sun

reflected in the river's flow,

below its surface, schools of fish

flash silver as they dart then slow,

in forests strange that lurk beneath

while ripples oscillate and fade.

A sudden splash then gone from sight,

into the depths as dark as night.

At the Setting of the Somme

Scorched and torched the bloodied, grieving soil,

where mangled corpses sprawl in no man's land,

felled by the rapid fire from gunners blitz.

Brave men advancing blindly to their foe,

onwards pass their brothers left in death,

they sacrifice their lives, they give their all.

All hell on earth as terror grips their minds,

this carnage we recall brings home its stain,

seared in our hearts such slaughter weeps in pain.

One hundred years ago, lest we forget,

red bleeds our wounded sky in deep respect

and sinking sun weighs heavy with my shame.

Endurance

Within Lynch Island's tangled tracks,

I stand before an English oak

whose girth exceeds all others seen.

Grey furrowed bark is tough on touch

as parasitic ivy clings

on vines that climb to giddy heights.

I circumvent a sturdy base

and with extended arms I reach

to measure round a wayward waist.

Five times I stretch with fingertips

beneath its overhanging boughs.

Five times the width of my embrace.

In days ahead with tree in leaf,

a canopy of heavy shade

will block each ray of lucent light

and dark the pathways will become,

that lead to where in May each year

white bells of Loddon lilies bloom.

How many Kings and Queens have ruled?

How many tyrants thrived and died?

How many battles fought and won,

yet undisturbed this tree stands strong

to oversee the misery

of England's blooded history.

If trees were able to convey.

If they could whisper words to us,

what secrets would they dare to tell?

That life prolonged on planet earth

is barely stirred by Heaven's grace,

far greater stoked by flames from Hell?

Some of the questions I am sure were reported and subsequently deleted. There have been appx 60 of these over the last couple of weeks. It has sent me on a nostalgia trip, thinking about the poets who frequented this place back then. Some interesting reading.

(Unfinished)

Once upon a lovely time,

I grew a rose and she was mine.

And in my garden she bloomed fair,

enhanced my living, filled the air

with fragrant, scented, sweet delight.

For many days the summer stayed.

Nurtured, cherished all could see,

how dearly loved my thriving rose,

how clearly loved she was by me.

But then came changes unforseen.

Uprooted from her garden space,

her precious charms soon fell from grace.

Into the hands she chose to go

of those misguided, miscreant.

Withdrawn from her own territory,

a safety net was not in place.

The warning signs were etched in lines,

I saw the future in her face.

Once in a while, her smile returned.

Ignited eyes brought forth a spark

and light would surface bring relief

from darkness, shadows and the murk,

existence in a twilight world.

The thorns that scratched and wounded flesh,

then shredded daydreams, tore on hearts.

How far apart my rose now seemed,

and how it pained and burdened so.

The skin of kin not tough enough.

Too thin, too thin, too thin by far

to stop her demons sinking in.

Sanctuary

If I could conjure magic up

and call for company,

who would I choose from those I've loved

to spend an hour with me?

Who would I choose to sit beside

upon this weathered seat,

while watching shadows from old oaks

draw closer to my feet?

Who would I choose to linger with

amid these scented flowers,

oblivious of passing time

or random summer showers?

Oblivious to birds in song

or butterflies in flight,

or daisies yawning in the grass

as dusk paves way for night?

How hard a task for me to choose,

pack those concerns away,

my thoughts have harboured many loves

as I sat here today.

cas/vn

Dead wood of the damson.

No longer will white petals fall

to soften where I tread,

nor fruit to stain the garden path

in clots of purplish red.

Sawdust scatters to the wind

while kindling covers ground.

Logs are stacked against a wall

and death lurks all around.

I counted rings that spoke to me

of seasons long departed.

The parting of this lovely tree

has left me broken hearted.

Some may say, it was just a tree,

but oh, the joy it brought to me.

So sunlight weakens, stirs our lawn

in partial shade embracing leaves,

like coracles afloat at sea.

These scattered craft of summer past

have fled a grieving cherry tree.

And on the ground, still wet with dew

a compass holds no earthly use,

they lie prostrate in patient wait

in hues of red, in random spread

uncertain of their pending fate.

Will they become an autumn mulch,

or feed the burner, turn to smoke,

send whispy trails high in the sky?

With all their glory days surpassed,

predestined too, like us they die.

Between the sheen of purple drapes,

two necklace trees stand on a cill,

by day and night like sentinels

through summer warmth and winter chill

a rush of lifetime memories.

Within their arms they clasp and hold

the chunky pinks, the greens and golds,

assorted beads that gleam in sun.

Some worn in sadness, some for fun

but all reflect a part of me.

A few are new, though most are old,

there's cheerful there as well as bold

and pearls for tears my Nan would say.

Each day there's always one I find

that mirrors well my state of mind.

They may have come steeped deep with love

or caught on impulse as I shopped.

Some dropped quite helpless in my hands

enhancement for a dress I'd bought,

yet all reflect a part of me.

One day dear girl, I'll fail to breathe,

don't grieve for me when I take leave.

Instead I ask you wear the pearls,

to complement your dark haired swirls

when you say your goodbyes to me.

Many, many moons ago

too many to confess.

I revealed my reasons for parting

and you will remember the rest.

It wasn't my finest hour,

while caught in the cold April rain.

I stumbled on words I was saying

and knew they were causing you pain.

Oh, it wasn't the morning shower

that drizzled your cheeks with wet,

it was the message that I was conveying

so coldly without a regret.

With hindsight I wish I had waited,

not knowing your days were numbered,

and the affliction that you would succumb to,

would attack and leave you encumbered.

Your fate descended in darkness,

on reflection, I wish I had known,

that your cards were marked with misfortune,

a lament I can not atone.

In a box in my loft I discovered

concealed and hidden for years,

a greeting you sent me one Christmas,

now smudged by my much older tears.

Far deeper set than those in sand

which mark a path across a bay,

our dearest will not wash away.

As imprints left in dampened grains

soon fade when fickle tide returns

or when the wind sweeps them away.

On borrowed time, they can not last.

Compare them to the winter snow

which melts when warmth demands it so.

Yet footprints cast within our hearts,

cemented smooth with love and pain,

they are the ones that will remain.

You'll see them in another's smile

or in the tears they gently weep.

Who says we go without a trace,

we stay for those whose love runs deep.

Mercy

What would I give to see all fear

depart without a trace?

What would I give to find a smile

content upon her face?

And in those eyes to recognise

a spark of recall there,

for peace to ease confusion's cage

and pains that she might bear.

Oh Mercy, Mercy, where are you?

You hide when needed most.

You lurk in shadows, view the scene,

I beg that you draw close,

to soothe her troubled mind and soul,

for then your praises I'll extol,

when you come calling to console,

it's then I'll know you care.

Promised

Beneath this frozen ground we wait,

protected from the iron fist

of winter as her cover slips

to freeze your garden, spread sharp frost

on wayward leaves now crunchy crisp.

Wild winds whip up and sun has lost

her welcome warmth, so pale her face,

no trace of robust, rosy glow.

Predicted soon are falls of snow

and ice will cling on country roads.

Our time clock ticks yet we must rest

in silent sleep, bear out the chill

until we push our waking green

through stubborn earth. And then the thrill

in early spring, we'll bring to you,

we'll dance for you in thickened clumps.

We are your promised daffodils.

Against All Odds

On Windsor's bank a sapling grows,

straight-backed and graceful, light on leaf.

A slender willow yet to weep,

supportive stakes, no sign of grief.

Ten paces to her left resides,

a hollowed bole, two metres wide,

where once a mighty willow bowed

and dipped its tresses sweeping green

into the cooling water's flow.

I do not know what fate ordained,

or why or how this tree was felled.

Today I heard it call to me.

'Don't fret or grieve for me', it said.

'Look closer at my roots where shoots

will prove I live, I am not dead'.