Thoughts of September.

When one door closes, another closes at the same time.
The one behind slams shut, and bars the traveller from returning
Whence they came.
The door ahead, so tantalisingly ajar as he approached
Is now bolted, and no amount of shaking and banging
Can persuade it to open again.
The door to the left is locked, solid and unmoving,
Whilst the one to the right has not been opened
In my lifetime, it is painted shut, and set like stone.
When one door closes, the traveller needs find
Another door.
But there is no other door.

The land of birth sets strong the tendrils of blood
And anchors them within the ribs of the growing man.
Stand proud and claim your heritage, my friend,
Until that day when you realise that all you think
That you inherited is so much dust and hot air,
The dream a mirage that can never be for real.
And then you turn your back on that never land,
And look to another future, look for a horizon
That heralds a new dawn, and a new day.

In new land, the fight continues, the daily battle
With prejudice and hatred never ceases.
When the native man opines that he does not
Hate you, but . . .
And beyond that but is a myriad of hating thoughts.
When the native man speaks a tongue you cannot
Understand, and laughs in your face if you ask
Him to explain.

And so the traveller find himself back in that
Dead-end hall, with four doors all shut against him,
And no clue as to where to go now.

© 2ndwitch, 23/02/15

Not that yesterday ...

Ice inching snow slipping
And a wind that whistles
Round the hanging leaves.
Grey and brown against stark white
And black in the shadows.
A whirring and winging
Of birds, gathered greedily
On the feeders.
A soft song of sadness
From the trees
As they wave at the
Snow-leaded skies,
Hoping for a glimpse of
Summer's sun.
As the afternoon passes,
The echoes of days gone
Linger in the watcher's ear,
And give answer to the
Simple question,
Yes,
Yes, you are getting older.

© 2ndwitch, 16/01/14

Rites of passage . . .

Lead them through the waiting storms, carry them when
The ground is mired in mud, hold their hands through
The dark woods, and perhaps one day, maybe, just maybe,
You will arrive in a golden valley, all sunlit and clear.
The small hand that winds its fingers into yours, clasping
Trustingly, is a trust that is sacred; a trust that must not be broken.
A broken trust is a crime beyond any other,
And the day that trust is broken is the saddest day in all time.
Time is endless and yet we are in the final days,
It is no longer the summer of our lives, but
The deadened leaves of autumns ghastly raiment
Fall and drift to cover all our yesterdays,
And on the wind is the first murmuring of the winds of winter.
And when winter comes, then will be the dying of our days.
The snow and ice of tomorrow is echoed back down the years,
And the raindrops that run, without mercy, down our necks
Are the harbingers of the black night, and all of our tears
Are shed in vain, but for the tiny hand that grasps so tight.
A long road winds before us, longer still behind, and yet
When the first light of the new day creeps behind the trees,
We know we are broken, and brought to our knees,
Before we resume the journey once again.

© 2ndwitch, 12/10/14

(My thanks to Dougie MacLean, whose lovely song, 'Rite of Passage' was the inspiration for this poem. As well as writing some cracking music he appears to be a genuinely lovely man, and well worth seeing live! See http://www.dougiemaclean.com for info.)

When the clock strikes thirteen . . .

If the colour of your eyes is a mystery to me, then I
Can only ask the question, and expect no
Answer other than a smile.
If your hair swings across your eyes when you move
Your head, I can no longer ask the question
Because there is no answer to be given.
Allow me, allow me, holding out my hand, to
Walk with you for perhaps on mile.
Your words spin and drift into the sky, and
There they shatter and splinter, and break
Into one million fragments that slowly
Float back down to earth.
And all I do is question, and listen
And watch to see if there is an answer.
There is no answer left, they have all
Been used up and the remains swept into
A pile in the corner of the room that
Does not exist.
It used to exist but is there no longer,
This room has no door but it has four windows
That look out over the restless ocean and
Call the lonely man back to the mountain.

© 2ndwitch, 10/10/14