Cinquain
Coming
out of the ground
sometimes it's hard to tell
between the autumn and winter
going
50 Words
There is that time,
the mornings are chilly,
the geese start their melancholic tones
warning of the impending changes.
First swallow,
first geese, lime and chestnut
all tell us their tales
year after year.
Latterly I have taken to listening and it seems to be making some sort of difference.
Last leaf fall quietness coldness and dark times evoke a time of earthy returningness
until rising again, at walking pace I'm told,
Spring shakes off the earth from her
overwintered clothing and wipes the sleep from her waking eyes.
It all begins again with joyous regularity.
I know that Sartre and Beckett would not agree and found no solace in the natural changes, at any rate it makes an impression on me these days and
layers upon the fabric of meaning
I make for myself wrapping up the baby in swaddling bands
somehow safe and secure in something known but unlearned
and for which I give thanks
in a way I thought I had lost
but even wounded bids can sing
attracting predators
yes I know
but with a zen like quality
being in the moment
becomes easier
with every breath
and things which used to
matter more
matter less
music
rediscovered
invited into the mix and meld
weave gloriously together
music and movement
I never learned to dance
another language
but it is never to late
the lost villages of Italy
still call
threatening my self -induced coma
I call life
the chill creeps though the window
the sunlight
illuminates
with less and less warmth now
but that is to be expected
no dawn chorus
the dawn catches up with my rising
soon to overtake it
they say
memories become the mainstay of reality
as age creeps along too
we will become friends
you and I
autumn to winter
age towards death
and we will make a fist of it
discovering more and more about how it works
in truth though I know there will be
no knowing of truth
only significant stories
to feed the traveller
thanks be for
small changes
encouraging
wonder and magic in the world.
