All will be ash.

In the soft light of a winter's day,
Cloud wreathed and dimmed with
The dull silver of damp and chill,
The flames burn bright and clear
And I burn, but I am not consumed.
In the morning light with clear blue
Sky reflecting in the ice-rimmed water
Below, the trees along the loch are
Sunrise lit, and they burn
They burn but are not consumed.
And as the evening dims to night,
Blue velvet spreading its mantle over
A sleeping world, star studded
And backlit from the rising moon,
The calls of those who have gone
Before echo back from the embers
Of the fire, and they burn, they burn
But still they are not consumed.

(c) 2ndwitch, 11/02/17

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.)

Without permission . . .

Cold and clammy fingers that creep and caress.
Feet that tread, slowly and surely, across the ice.
Trees with white-shroud branches.
Shrubs bent, weighted with winter.
And then there are the footprints in the snow.

In the dark hours, when no-one but the moon
Is watching, comes roving the fox, hunting
In the starlight, and passing under the windows
Unseen and unheard, but leaving the mark of passage.

When the sun rises, the silver-grey-steel shimmers
And draws lines across the landscape, cold
Water and snow-lapped shores, together
Marking the season's progress.

Cold hands, gloved but chilled, clasping
The hot mug of tea.

© 2ndwitch, 21/01/15

Resolution.

Slow sliding steps, a somnolent shuffle
Towards tomorrow. And tomorrow.
A sideways slip, sneaking and sidling
Into a new dawn, a new day.

But the sun still rises, and the moon
Still crosses the star-sky,
And the cloud tears fall time and time
And time again.

The wing-beat is measured,
The bird glides to earth.
And the stag stands, startled
And alert.

© 2ndwitch, 05/01/15

And above us only sky.

The moon gazed down, an eye in the sky, watching,
Watching, whilst the birds flew home to roost, twittering to
Each other and fluffing up their feathers against the cold.
The moon, silver and apparently omniscient, hung
Like a mis-shapen balloon, suspended against a velvet
Backdrop studded with stars, cold, clinical and castigating.
The moon, that night-time lamp, casting a thousand shades
Of muted pastel light on the weary world, is immune
To the bone-deep chill of the December dusk.
The moon, serene and without sympathy, gazes
Down on man, and sees bloodshed and lies,
But will not tell us what she thinks. If she thinks at all.

©2ndwitch, 05/12/14

Hot buttered toast.

On this old world man sits and wonders
Why this is how things have to be.
In the new world man sits and wonders
Why this is how things now are.
In the only world man sits and wonders
But does not know what he wonders.
Life is bizarre, and the birds are calling
In the night hours, whilst
The fish jump and wave lazily
At the passing angler.
The bell used to ring
But now it tolls not for you.
If you walk down the steps
There are ghosts that will keep you company.
And small children laugh to see you cry.
Tomorrow there may be a reason why
Yesterday has gone but had no reason
Today is only the question that
Cannot be answered.
The ticking clock measures the minutes
And the hours as they pass relentless
And without pause.
The lines on the pavement measure
The distance you have walked
And mark out how far you
Have still to travel.
Do you travel?
Do we travel?
Are we on the old world, or
On the new, or are we simply
Passengers on this only world as it
Spins slowly through space
So fast that we feel the wind in our hair?
But the cat curls up and basks
In the moonlight, and the dog
Sometimes barks and sometimes
Does not.

© 2ndwitch, 09/10/14

Blood is thicker than ink.

And I think.
I think that blood is thicker than ink.
Ink is also black, or blue, or red, or green.
Blood is red.
It is a myth that some blood is blue.
There is no definition that applies.
There is no delineation in my eyes.
So that I conclude that indeed
Bood is thicker than ink.
And on the moonlit horizon,
There is a star, shining and
Sending a pinpoint of light to
Focus on the man who sits upon
The shore and gazes at the
Never-ending tide, the shifting
And changing sands beneath
His feet pulling him in towards
The centre of this earth.
The globe of rock and earth
Girt by seas, that spins and turns
Around the burning sun that
Allows us life, is a globe
Of green and blue, with
No distinction between black and white.
There is no delineation in my eyes.
And blood is thicker than ink.

© 2ndwitch, 07/10/14

(With thanks to Roddy Woomble, whose song "Between the old moon" was the inspiration for this poem. See http://www.roddywoomble.com )

Anticlimax

Soft lips caress, and fingers drift, slowly and in meditative mood,
Up and down the arching spine.
Breathing deepens and speeds, there is sense of urgency, a sense
Of no return, a coming together that has been
Long waited for. And then, and then.
Suddenly.
It is all over.
A flash fiction of a story, swift and concluded,
A breathless headlong rush to climax,
And then nothing, emptiness.
And the turning over to a blank page.

In the dark they lie, close, but a million miles
Apart. Each cocooned in a darkened velvet
Cocoon, hidden and silent.
Is this the end?
Is this what it has all come to?
Is there nothing more?
And slowly, in the dark, eyes close,
And sleep beckons as the paling moon
Sweeps her silvered glance across the room,
And weeps a silver star of tears for the loss
Of love, and of hope.

© 2ndwitch, 14/05/14