Hiding a tree.

Take me to the desolate place, where no man goes,
And let me sit and gaze up to the hill.
Take me to the place of rock, and summer-living snows,
Where I can stand in silence and be still.
Let me taste the wind that whips the spring-fruit rain,
And let me feel the velvet touch of night.
Let me drink the endless wine of autumn once again,
And let me set the endless wrongs to right.
I will ride the winged horse, and fly out in the dark,
And I will run and breathe the starry sky.
I will dance with dragonflies, and sing songs with the lark,
And in the golden light of sunrise I will die.
Across the hills, and through the vales, let the eagle soar
And carry wordless voices on a sigh.

A single wing beat floats, waves crash on the shore
And with soundless raindrop-tears I softly cry.

© 2ndwitch, 02/08/15

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

The longest night.

At the darkening of the year, the nights blend seamlessly
Into the days that went before and the ones that are still to come.
At the darkening of the year, the skies cry raindrop-tears like
Liquid diamonds, enchanted and ephemeral, never lasting.
At the darkening of the year, leaves wilt and fall from the branches
That cling to them in despair, fearful of death, ignorant of spring.
At the darkening of the year, the mornings fight with dusk to cast
A soft and feathered light over the beaten and bowed earth.
At the darkening of the year, rebirth is longed for, but seems
To far away to be remembered, and only death rules.
At the darkening of the year, whether or not we believe, we
Remember a birth that was perhaps an ending, perhaps a death?
And at the darkening of the year, we fight the depth of night with
A brazen show of lights, of glitter, of tinsel and of excess.


© 2ndwitch, 04/12/14

Time

Small things, a passing word, a smile, the way the sun
Catches on the raindrop'd leaf, small things
Are all it takes to bring the vagrant memory
To mind, and slowly, perhaps, some part of one
Of those memories creeps out from between
Closed eyelids, and slides quietly down
The weathered and aged skin, and pauses,
Suspended between the inward void and the
Infinite outside world, before being swept away
By an impatient hand.
And embarrassed, friends stand by, and
Utter bland and hopeless words, designed to
Comfort or suppress, which is not clear,
But always the words that are meaningless
Chatter and fight, the cacophony hiding the
Soft whisper of treasured remembrance.
That, my friend, is the truth of the rain that
Stands on the snowdrop.

© 2ndwitch, 26/11/14

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.)

I don't like . . .

A single impossible word creeps slowly along the path
Skirting the tree root, and dodging under a blade of grass
When a man with size thirteen feet walks briskly past.
A note from a five-string flute floats, lazily on the wind
And drifts to the ground just next to the roundabout on
The playground that is populated by teenagers with
Piercings and tattoos and shoes with laces that are not tied.
A conker-drumbeat stomps its way up the steps, each
Foot a boot-shod resonance that echoes in the deepest
Depths of the mortal soul of the man with the size
Thirteen feet, who has stopped to chat to the teenagers
About the design of one of their tattoos.
And under the cover of this conversation, the word
And the note and the drumbeat meet, huddling quietly
At the foot of the slide, sheltering from the random and
Desultory raindrops that a sobbing cloud drips whilst
Arguing with the angry sky.
But in the end it is just another manic Monday.

© 2ndwitch, 09/10/14

(With thanks to The Bangles and 'Manic Monday' which was not so much an inspiration as a conclusion - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lAZgLcK5LzI)

The armour is not shining.

Raindrops, relentless and dripping, sleel-shod and silky,
Slipping and sliding down the window, the window through
Which the light softly creeps and sidles into the waiting room.
The window, and the room, together, they look at the rain, and
Ask it whence it came and why? They ask it if it stays, the sky
Fall tears, weeping from the carousing clouds, wine-sodden on
Summer mead, and bellicose with bee-bumbled memory.
Over again, the conversation ambles back and forth, forth and back
And forth and back again. Why? Who? Where? When?
When will I see you again?

© 2ndwitch