Echoes

Memories, encapsulated forever,

Trapped, insects in amber,
Hiding in out of the way places,
Memories, the distillation of pain,
I wish you were here . . .
I wish you could hear . . .

The siren call of autumn
Floats on the August wind,
And promises the harvest
And then the deep sleep
Of winter's ice-rimmed death grip.

(c) 2ndwitch, 30/08/16

In blue light.

The clock is ticking, slow and steady, beating out
A rhythm to breathe to, in, out, in out, and time
Is held, aspic-set, in suspension of progress, with
No hope of regress.

The fire spits, and crackles, now louder, now softer
With sparks showering the glowing coals from time
To time, and a gentle dying back until there is only
A dulling orange glow.

Outside, the owly moon casts her mystic glow down
Onto the silver loch, shading out the colours of the
Day, and bringing autumn to winter's heel, a promise
Of frost soon to come.

And inside, the memories of times ago are rising, waking
With the midnight hour, and jostling into view, the mixed
Voices of the past clamouring to live again, in one vast
And riotous dream.

And this is now, that was then, but what was then
Also is now, and there is no moving on, and there is
No moving back, no leaving the past behind despite
The creeping new day.

© 2ndwitch, 11/11/15

(These words were inspired by a badly lit gig, with the performer presenting an almost photographically negative image to the audience, with the blue from a string of fairy lights casting shadows across an ageing face.)

On viewing the morning through mist.

When the mist sweeps down and shrouds the tired leaves,
And the morning sun is water-coloured seeping through the clouds,
When the trees are casting off the summer's green canopy
Then we know that autumn has arrived.
The long and sharp-scented walks through the fallen leaves,
The early evening light that dims and darkens massing clouds,
The worn and fading grass that reflects the ageing sky's canopy,
All indicate that autumn has arrived.

© 2ndwitch, 30/09/15

Stonymollan road

The long stone path, climbing slowly through
Bracken and heather, girt with popping broom,
Turns gently to left and right, always climbing,
Embraced by benevolent trees that filter the
Late summer, or is it early autumn, sun.

The dappled shade leopards the grassy bank
And plays an ephemeral game of hide and seek
On my hands and arms as I write.
The burn, down-flowing, provides the counterpoint, in treble
To the percussive broom, and the bass of distant cars.

Today is just one day, taken out of time, and held
Tight in my empty hands, it escapes my grasping fingers
And dances its onward way, cloud-dotted and pale blue.
Never, no never, again, will I see that bee
Visit the open gloves left by a passing fox.

Never, no never, again will that exact blue bottle
Buzz and bumble on the browning bracken.
But, for ever and ever again, this one
Encapsulated moment will live
In my mind's eye, preserved, a sun-washed memory.

© 05/09/15

The grieving of the year.

The first breaths of autumn brush softly
The now wrinkled cheeks of summer;
They kiss the fingers of August, in greeting
And farewell, sighing long and low over the
Blown roses and tired leaves; and then
The harsher cold of the steel-blue eyes of
A dying season casts its tendrils over
The final shivers of remembered warmth.
Autumn, fruitful autumn, heralded by clouds
And driving rain; a season of fading memories
And sobbing grief; hidden in the relentless drops
Of piercing water, the herald of ice and winter snow.

© 2ndwitch, 01/09/15

No acorns.

I am bad, or am I? I do not know, do you know?
Whatever the answer there is no answer and the leaves
That drift and swirl down from the autumn tree are
Mocking you. I am not the best, but neither are you,
Because there is no best. If you claim to be the best
Then you will find yourself being ridiculed
By the beech mast that crunches on the path
As you walk along. You are not bad, because
If I am not bad then you cannot be. Let the leaves
Mock and laugh, for the autumn winds are blowing
Now, and soon they will be followed and chased away
By the winter chill, with icy teeth and insistent fingers
That seek out the smallest crack in your
Insufficient armour, and infiltrate deep into your
Soul. And then no music or words will sooth the
Wounds, for the hurt will not be skin deep,
And you will wonder if you can go out into
The wild white, and will your footsteps linger
Just a while, then fill and smooth and be no more.
Be no more, be no more.

© 2ndwitch, 21/10/14

(Ok, so this has not so much been inspired by a song, as two lines from the song are the starting point - I cannot offer a link as I cannot find it online, but it is by Ivan Drever (I think), see http://www.ivandrever.co.uk in case!)

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.)

By the Clyde

There are days when the sky is just grey.
Not steel grey, no drama, no rolling clouds,
But flat, dull and simply grey. Today.
And on that day I sat and watched the soft sunlight
That sneaked past the cloud, as it played with the leaves,
The leaves that the wind made to dance.
I listened to the birdsong, the harshing call of
The crows, and the insistent chatter of the great tits.
I saw the skeletons of pine cones left by
Hungry squirrels, and saw the golden crested flash.
I walked beside the water, slowly, but steadily,
Pausing to listen and watch, to see the dipper bob and
Dive against the stream, and walking on in silence
That demanded no disturbing words.
On this day there was peace.

© 2ndwitch, 14/09/14

Interlude.

The air was heavy with late summer drowsiness,
Bees hummed, and birds scrabbled in the leaves
Beneath the trees by the river.
Leaves had fallen, some green, some turning
To red or gold, as the blanket of autumn
Hovered lazily just around the corner.
A flash of gold, of red, and the whisper of wings
As a goldfinch darted through the branches
Of the alder by the brook.
The grass, still green, but dark and tired now,
Cushioned each footfall, and murmured
Soft words of the falling of the year.

© 2ndwitch, 13/09/14