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.