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.

It was his Birthday

Written is response to the http://www.ekphrastic.net for the ekphrastic challenge : Van Gogh Starry Night .

It was his Birthday

It was his birthday
When thinking becomes joined up
And is more than black and white
It was his birthday when the
Lines of traffic merged in a continuous Stream somewhere along the A38
When electric blue sent sirens down the Road in rotating motion and
Vapour trails slipped from white to Gold in laminar flow And twisted strands
Merged their course and conjured stars From spun cotton candy
It was his birthday when the sky turned Dark and the trees took
Shapes of chess pieces mid game. And flecks of white blew clouds from Stranded cars Into darkness

And he was still not home

It was his birthday.