Here is a selection of my poetry for SEPTEMBER
Df Caspar TREE OF CROWS
A chatter of crows
Prelude celebration of first light.
Whilst others sleep
These shadows caw across the stubbled field :
Black harbingers who come with tales of death.
A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER
For days late summer heat had built
Hazing first fields of corduroy
Where swallows climbed the heavy air
To shimmer over distant wheat.
Dense storm clouds mass as black night turns
And thunder stumbles round the hills
Until a brief fluorescent flash
Illuminates our airless room.
Then rain. First heavy drops explode
Unevenly in ones and twos,
Till suddenly a torrent grows -
Setting awash the window sill,
Racing down gullies, blocking drains,
Cascading from gutters, swamping
Lawns........everywhere is overfilled.
Later we hear the storm's last roll
As timpani begins to slow :
Rain shushes to a steady drip.
And under blankets of warm air
We lie and wait for ragged dawn -
Together, but with separate thoughts -
Aware, like love, that summer's gone.
HAIKU FOR THE EQUINOX
Outside my window
Fat blackberries ripening -
Try one, taste the sun!
In this, the Autumn of her life,
Mossed tree — planted to mark her birth —
Has grown too tall,
With fruit too high to reach.
Each day she waits for wind and sun
To bring her windfalls down.
And life has always been like this —
Spent tending to the fallen fruit :
Both parents, husband, then her son
Had tumbled from the family tree,
Been rescued after falling low
Like windfalls — bruised but whole.
As evenings shorten,
Light's orange glow
Glints from the eyes
Of tall buildings.
Dark beads restrung -
Looped above roads,
Reproach the setting sun.
We will go soon,
We will go soon -
And I, whose infancy
Was sun and flowers,
Watch like a child
Surprised by adult grief,
Confused by sudden tears -
Left with enduring sadness.
Swallow Diane Williams
The geese are here, marking your special day –
Trumpeting loud greetings as they pass.
Warm sun plays softly on the trellised rose,
Attracting sluggish bees to end their fast.
The mouse-like wren chatters from late sweet peas;
More fallen apples litter dew-damp grass
And, from the wall, your robin watches all :
Counting last days of summer slipping past.
THE LAST TIME
Then, every year it was the same,
we'd wait to watch the geese return.
Just as the sun began to set,
we'd hear them from our cottage door,
honking and calling as they passed.
Somehow they knew when to arrive…
with harvest in and combine gone,
in twos and threes, then Vs and skeins
they'd circle round fresh stubbled field
that filled the top of Cabbage Hill —
dark silhouettes against red sky,
landing in tens beyond Long Copse.
Their congress lasted for a week
with trips to feeding grounds each day
and loud reunions at night.
Then they were gone, leaving the hill
as suddenly as when they came,
to over-winter miles away.
When, late last year, the land was sold,
men with hard hats and plans moved in,
soon diggers made the good earth fly.
“Creating new communities —
A family countryside retreat”…
But not a place to welcome geese.
OF THE MOMENT
How does a skilful artist capture now?
Moments of inspiration soon decay,
the freshness of those visions lost to time,
each line or brush-stroke made from yesterdays.
The camera’s no better trapping now,
the whirr of motor drives are like a clock,
with every click an image sets in time —
each freshly captured now in history’s locked.
Recording on real time CCTV,
the ever changing present fills the screen,
but when the set goes blank we know the cause:
it’s time’s persistent ghost in the machine.
“...the distinction between past, present and future is only
a stubbornly persistent illusion.” Einstein