Still?

As the daylight hours die away and merge into the grey of evening,
And as they in turn darken into the black of night;
As the clouds close in and hide the swift trajectory of the winter sun,
And dim the light that washes a browned and decaying earth;
It is then, then that we remember,
It is then, then that we recall the lights of summer laughter
And the sparking stream flowed beside us
And reached the sleeping loch.
It is then, then that we remember,
It is then, then that we recall the sunlight dancing on the waves
And illuminating the millions of grains of sand.
But in the hours when the darkened world
Turns to us only its shadowed and masked face,
The recollections of those earlier days are played
Across the screens of inner eyes, and they still
Live on.
Always.



(c) 2ndwitch, 17/11/18

Remembering Eliot . . .

The cold December wind slices through
Clothes, and slowly numbs the skin.
The cold December wind mocks the closed
Windows and drawn curtains, and sneaks
Under the chairs to wind around your ankles.
The cold December wind reminds you that is
The ending of the year, perhaps the zenith
Or the nadir of growth and sunlight, or
The reign of moonlight over night.
It is when that December wind blows, lazily,
And with malice, around your ears and down
Your scarf-clad neck, then is the time you
Are reminded of the year gone by, and of
Those you have lost and will see no more.
And it is when the wind dies away, and settles
Into a soft sigh of frost chilled breath, that is
The time you think of the new year still to come.


(c) 2ndwitch, 13/12/16

Warm Embrace

Today I have seen the words that tell the tale
Today I have listened to the song that serenaded your going
And today I have looked back in time at the
Memories that are swirling, some bright,
Some faded into soft colour, some mono
And some greying into moonlit silver.
And today I feel again the knife that
Cut me to the soul, that took from
Heart of me all that I am, and laid
It bare before me, to see and realise
The pointlessness of it all, the lack of
Anything of point or purpose.
Your death took from me the hope of a new
Day, and it showed to the world that I
Am worthless and without substance.
Today I have revisited that day, and once again
I can see the entrails of a life wasted
Spread at my feet, to be kicked
And buried into the dust and detritus of
Other people's more worthwhile lives.
Today I have remembered the songs that cut
To the bone, the pictures sung that dance
In my darkest dreams and people my
Nightmares, today I recalled the truth of
The knowing that it is not for me, and that
There is no tomorrow, just yet another
And another and another yesterday.
Today I have remembered the
Yesterday that I cannot forget.

(c)2ndwitch, 04/12/16

Hiraeth

A single word hangs, shimmering, in the late afternoon light.
A note, sung softly, chimes like a bell calling the faithful
To worship and revere a god that lives between dry pages.
A dust mote dances, and invites the watcher to join it in
A reel to the music of time.
And all the time, there is no time, but there is all time,
And time is measured by breaths, longer for the ones
Not taken, and the soft sigh of the falling dusk echoes
Across the faded gilt of the sunset's dregs.
No waves can carry back to the shore the hopes
That were cast overboard, no swift flowing tide can
Recapture the dreams that spun and wove a
Delicate web of promise.
Only the land is eternal, and yet it is not,
Only the seas can hold the tears that are cried
And yet they cannot, for all that is infinite is
Truly finite, and is held in the palm of my hand.

(c) 2ndwitch, 28/10/16

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

1976

Thinking back on days gone by, remembering
The rain that made the wipers swish, and the
Roaring splash of the tyres on the wet road.
Thinking back on days gone by, remembering
The smell of grass as the leather hit the willow
And the sun was so hot it burnt your legs.
Thinking back on days gone by, remembering
The dash reach the door before the raindrops
Soaked your hair, and then shaking the drops
Of the umbrella by opening and closing it.
Thinking back on days gone by, remembering
The way home-made ice-lollies became just
Ice by the time you got to the end.
Thinking back on days gone by, remembering

The ants that scurried back and forth, in and
Out of the cracks between the flags on the drive.
Thinking back on days gone by, remembering

Beach days, and park days, sandwiches and apples,
And tea from a vacuum flask that actually kept it hot.
Thinking back on days gone by, remembering

When life was promising, and lay before me, many
Roads to choose from, so much opportunity, so
Many chances to go wrong and throw it all away.

(c) 2ndwitch, 30/05/16

My thanks to Ray Hearne, whose song 'The Longest Hot Summer' inspired this poem. See http://rayhearne.co.uk 

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 going back.

Each step is treacle-bound, the effort of
Keeping open those eyes is almost
Greater than humanly feasible. Yet.
Still, forwards, forwards, and still
Forwards, there is no other route.
There is no other way, the roads
That used to be open are now shut,
And the turnings marked 'no entry'.
The white line never ceases, bending
Round corners and pausing. Yet.
Still forwards, the relentless hum of
The engine is mesmerising the driver.
And forwards, only forwards, there
Is no other way. Yet. Yet. Yet.

© 2ndwitch, 17/06/15

Ghosts.

When there is time to think, that is when
The day becomes soft, and grey, and fades
Into a colour of oblivion.
The small sounds, the glimpse that catches
You unawares, those are the things that
Have the greatest power to hurt and
That we cannot avoid, however
Hard we try.
And we try.
For each and every moment is another
Moment of battle, another battle in the
War that never ends, from now
Until then, whenever then may be.
Then, a destination, a place in the future
Or perhaps a shadow of yesterday,
That hovers over any one of us,
A raincloud of tears and recriminations.
The shimmering dancing wavering
Branches imprint on the water
Sunlit in waves, and tempting
The watcher to drown in unknown depths.
A wingbeat of time, a heartbeat away
From death, and calling for the
Greying of day into night.
A cool breeze that caresses with steel.

© 2ndwitch, 13/03/15

Monochrome.

There are days when the longing for what once was
Overcomes the pleasure in what is now.
There are days when the times gone by sing their
Lament in your ears, and block the sound of the
Soft day breathing. There are days, there are days.
If you have never loved, or never lost, then you
Cannot know the same days.
You will know days, you will ignore days,
Some days you will cry with a pain that was born
When neolithic man walked this earth, and
Will find that pain unbearable, and so sharp,
And so cold and so hot, you will know those days.
Others will know other days, when the softing light
That filters through the silken grey of winter clouds
And caresses you with ethereal limbs, and strokes
The warmth into a chilled submission, and when the
Memories engage in a macabre dance of death,
Those days will seep into your heart, and sap
The hope from your very soul.
The days when the longing for what once was
Is so strong that you feel yourself bending and
Breaking, your roots are torn free from solid ground,
And you are tossed on a torrent of grief and regret
That crashes and roars and carries you unwilling
All the way down to the infinite sea.
There are days.

© 2ndwitch, 06/03/15

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

Reflecting.

The light of snow-cloud and rainbow-sun danced
Across the wind-tossed waves, and touched the trees
On the far shore.
Silver-grey plated hills deigned to stoop
And kiss the winter-watered loch.
And a robin darted and bobbed on the barren branches.

Memories of summer days hovered, just out of reach,
And the ghosts of evenings round the campfire
Sang soundless songs to the winter air.

A phantom sunrise taunts the winter afternoon,
And promises that this day too will pass.

And this day too will pass.

© 2ndwitch, 21/02/15