I will listen

I will listen to the song of the sea 
I will listen to the wind in the trees
The lamentations of the world
Torn to shreds
The fear,the loss, the anger shared
I will feel the warmth within these walls
I will feel the love from those around
Each flower that opens yellow or blue
Will draw me closer to those far away
Where night is dark and days are long
Until the signs of spring shine forth
And light returns with peace on earth.

Praying for the people of Ukraine.

Storm 3

The four winds blow, 
Mustering yet more strength
In rallying war cry
Powerful and Strong
Sweeping over bent grass
Combing and creasing the hill
Into ripples of spun icing;
Trees are rocked and spun in
Forceful gyrations prizing
Naked branches apart.
Building and retreating in monumental fashion
Relentless in accomplishment.
Refusing to abate.
All through the night
To the cold blue-grey
And a view.

debris cast asunder
strewn across the green
a lonely battlefield

Rhythm of Morning

Sometimes there is a song in the morning 
Of blackbird or wren,
A flit through the hedge,
Often unseen
Though shrill the call;
Or thrush
In rhythm breaking a shell,
Driving a rivet into a stone.
Lamenting all today,
The world spins darker
The tune is changed;
The song replaced by constant roar
Of pounding wind,
Forceful and strong,
Whistling through any
Gap unseen,
A broken tune
Of slate against stone
Driving the rain to a different rhythm
To the one in my heart.

Ancient Walls

I touch the walls of the ancient room,
And feel the breath from another age.
From here I glimpse the transient silvered moon;
I trance dark clouds amidst storm -filled rage.
The wind it thunders, though unrestrained;
These walls of stories and secrets kept
In silence resolute unexplained,
If only they awoke instead of slept.
What stories are wrought which they could reveal?
What hidden whispers might be heard ?
I feel them shudder absorb the feel,
The storm abates with those memories blurred.

Most Winter Mornings

Most winter mornings
The cold blue light gives way to lightening skies
Most winter mornings the respite comes
This winter morning light flickers
Before extinguishing
Through a patchwork sky
In flickering array
Cloud studded and ever moving
Landscape of grey
Building and growing
Swelling to fill the wideness of
Big skies
Fingers of spent wind
Clawing the branches of tired trees
Stark is the warning of more to come
Gusts exceeding 50mph
Will rise to 90
Foreboding words
To brace and heed.
Birds are silent
Senses sharp.

Old House :Winter Night

With pulsating rain 
The strengthening wind is drawn through
The blackest of nights;
The mist swirls ribbons
Like the jet stream trail
And the windows rattle;
Droplets course down the blackened panes in little streams
Pooling on the ledge
As the latch lifts and falls
And curtains move in oscillating rhythm
While heavy slates lift and drop
Making the whole house strain
Defining its age of ancient years.