An autumn morning,
Brilliant after rain,
The long grey skies
Restored to blue again,
A flock of geese appearing from the left
Flies in Prussian style formation.
But in retreat,
Across the fields of mud and mire
And blurred fields of vision as I tire,
And in the pastel air and rising higher,
Become a stunning, crowd, a congregation:
Diplopia, migraine made
Turns little flock,
To mystical, synchronized murmuration.
Thursday, 21 November 2019
I did not know that you were my true love,
Until I glimpsed you, unexpectedly,
And felt my heart beat speeding, as my breath
Was put on pause and I compared
The printed image of your pastel sky,
With that beyond, around, above.
I saw your light, which changes imperceptibly,
Held captive on the page and as I stared
Recalled the decades of its loveliness gone by
Which bound me to you, likely unto death.
And yet you only featured here, in your beauty
Because you’d acted badly by my fellows,
Had acted in accordance with your nature,
In wild abandon of your regulated duty
And filled yourself with calm and glassy water,
To make a mirror for your pale washed heaven,
To place it on your surfaces in patches,
Reflecting autumn’s buffs and golden yellows.
Wednesday, 6 November 2019
I long for paraffin, coloured blue
I hold it up in imagination
Comparing Mary’s gown,
The sky, the cut-up velvet curtain,
Finding them all wanting
In my obsessive concentration
On the shade, of which I’m certain.
I don’t need the heat from the stove,
Or the rival shades of the flame,
Too much like Calor gas,
The row of triangular teeth
Dancing, not guttering,
On the wick underneath.
Do I need the fumes too,
Some strong scent to inhale?
Or is it just the look I should remember,
Of loveliness in a five gallon can
Off white, translucent plastic?
Just something about the liquid hue
Against yellow chestnut leaves and larch
And piles of orange-copper beech
That feels like Heaven,
Childhood essence of November.