I have seen this same old log
Over many years
As I passed by with my dogs.
Years have flown.
I have walked alone
When my dogs have died.
Now I pass by
With another one.
Time moves forever on.
All logs decay.
I know one day
Dogs and I
Will not pass by.
But autumn leaves
Are beautiful to me.
A patch of sunlight on the hall floor.
I close the living room door
And the light is seen no more.
I know the night kills the light
And the ferryman waits to take
Me to the final gate
Where there is no Cerberus
To prevent our escape.
Just what was us
And implacable fate.
The last
Of the summer grass
Is mown.
The future is unknown.
The past
May be a guide.
But we decide
What seed is sown.
But does grass
In the mower’s grasp
Feel itself free …
Some speak of the inevitability of progress.
While I rhyme of springtime
And trees that bud in ancient woods.
But autumn will surely come
And the trees undress.
Bare branches breed despair in some.
But spring sun will come
And buds appear in gardens and woods.
For nature has her cycle
Of death and rebirth
And cares not for what
We label as progress.
I listen dutifully as he speaks of forestry.
A soft breeze whispers in trees
And I am far away where wind plays
Through the forest and through me.
The wind is an invisible thing.
We see the waving trees
And leaves blown in the breeze.
I hear the wild wind
But him I do not see.
In the early morning
When all is still and quiet
My thoughts run riot.
Then, the silence takes me
To a place
Where no thought exists in me. ,
And I am free
To simply be
She says that she used to see me
On her way to school.
As she pours my usual drink, I think
Of Larkin’s “The Old Fools”.
And I cast around for something to say
About my so ordinary day
I found 2 conkers in my desk drawer.
I could return them to the forest floor
Where they would rot and be one
With fruits and flowers long since gone.
Autumn is in the air,
Yet I do not care
To return them to the ground.
A thought, perhaps profound,
We are all bound
To join Mother Nature’s great store
When we, as leaves fall
And become as one
With generations long gone.
Conkers may be put away
In a drawer.
But Autumn’s fall
Says all things must decay.
As I sat composing poetry
On a windswept afternoon
In the garden.
I heard all the windchimes
Sounding out of tune.
And then came the rain
To mock me
And my poetry.
K Morris - Poet 