Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birdsong, church, dawn, landscape, light, May, nature, pigeon, Poetry, song, Sound, sparrows, spring, sunday on May 4, 2014| Leave a Comment »
SERMON
From his pulpit
On the top-most branch
The wood pigeon’s
Sonorous sermon
Drones, resounding,
Slow around.
Beneath him,
Hidden in back-pew bush
Disrespectful sparrows,
In their Sunday best browns and bibs,
Chatter and play,
Impious, but loved,
Regardless
Of the Most High.
—
LIGHT
An instant before birdsong.
Time returns with increments of colour.
Light is all there is:
Light frozen, light expanding.
We orbit meaning, voiceless
In wonder,
Witnesses to glory.
—-
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged birds, February, flight, grey days, landscape, magpie, moments, more rain, nature, nesting, Poetry, rain, shelter, sparrows, storm, weather on February 14, 2014| 4 Comments »
STORM DAYS
This hollow, unrevealed sky.
Dipping, a magpie attempts a new meridian,
A straight flight to food or shelter.
The dead elms’ reaching fingers quiver;
Power chords, the cables roar.
We each and all must huddle and endure,
With the sparrows, with the ever joyous,
Garrulous sparrows – delicate and subtle
In their design, a clutch of heartbeats,
Warm, communal.
No malevolence in the weather.
No malfeasance in the storm.
Another day to sing about.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged awareness, dream, garden, habits, Haiku, impressionist, landscape, lines of intent, nature, nerve pathways, persona, rain, roles, roses, sparrows, streets, symbolist on June 11, 2013| 2 Comments »
JUNE RAINS (haiku/haibun cycle)
Sudden gust of wind.
Rain-wet face.
These grey, empty streets.
These grey, empty streets:
I do not know their names.
They do not know mine.
A dream in cold dawn.
Too many words attached to memory. A posy of complaint, shades of all the colours of melancholy. Cast down, forgotten, they shall dissolve, mulch for future centuries. Beautiful air locating magical symbols. A play with syllabic sweetness, a river of sanity too far to touch.
A dream in cold dawn.
Somehow choosing a role
No-one else will have.
Is there a moment, a time, when each one of us decides our degree of visibility? Do we slip, collecting the well-worn clothes of a vacant consciousness, into comforting roles, familiar, mapped out? And so they adhere, become so owned. The first and the last in the queue. The sensible one, the designated driver, the quiet one, the strange one.
No-one else is here.
Squabbling sparrows
Scattering blossoms.
Rain-wet garden.
The colours have swiftly changed from the brightness of May to the weighed greens of June. Elder blossom is the punctuation, and the delicate scatter of wild roses. The bindweed curls, the honeysuckle prepares its longing fingers. The sun breeds cloud, sucks moisture and breathes storm.
No-one else will know
This one silent moment.
Rain wet garden.
Rain-wet garden
Flowers weighed down.
Unavoidable sorrow.
Unavoidable sorrow.
Thoughts falter.
The low-slung cry of swallows.
Low-slung cry of swallows
Steady rain
Strange emptiness.
Strange emptiness
Fills with peace.
Scent of wild roses.
Scent of wild roses:
Though they bend and weep
They know this rain a blessing.
—–
simonhlilly 