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

Last will and testament

Who I am is not something that you can ever know
For the sky turns pink when the sun is setting
And the journey I travel is a strange one to you
For the sky turns dusk-deep-blue when the sun has set
And the places that I visit and ones that mean something to me
And the sky turns black as night casts its spell on dusk
As I turn and wave goodbye and walk out of the door
The stars are clinging to the velvet curtain before the dawn
And my footsteps tread along the old old road
As the sky wakens the cloud-girt morning at the opening of the day
And the road rolls over hill and dale
Burnt amber-grey in the midday sun
The bracken waves and fades into facsimile flames
And the void is all that is left.

© 2ndwitch © 28/11/14 (and the lack of all punctuation bar the last full stop is quite deliberate.)

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 )

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

Cadence

Grey clouds jostle with each other in a crowded sky,
Rain vessels in a bargain bin, waiting to be selected and
Allowed to cry crocodile tears for the summer that has gone.
The tree outside the window sways slowly, imagining the breezes
That earlier stirred it to life, and waiting for the autumn to send
Winds of change and cold breath. Birds pause, waiting, waiting
Also, for reason to call, to fly, for feathers to stroke the air and caress
The softening harbinger of velvet and silk studded night.
All is suspended, life has halted and now sits, quiescent but
Powerful, the sun arrested in her heavenly orbit, a still point
When around the universe spins and speeds towards an
Untimely end. Even the stars are silent, their light hushed
In expectation. The countdown has begun.

© 2ndwitch, 15/08/14