The scent of new-mown grass
Catches me as I pass
By graves in spring.
I take delight
In this brief light
As birds sing
Over tombs and grass
New-Mown Grass
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Tag Archives: mortality
Short Walk
When I take the short walk
Through the churchyard, my thought
Often turns
To lessons not learned
And chances spurned.
And then I turn
To my so ordinary day
And say,
“I will learn!”
Yet still my way
Remains the same
Treadmill of pleasure and pain.
But my demons will stop
When the devil knocks
Dash
Sometimes I dash
Along the churchyard path.
But those who sleep
Have no appointments to keep.
And I pass by
The graveyard plot
Until I do not.
Yet I must
My final appointment keep
With worms and dust.
And the earth
Will continue to turn
Without heed or need
Of me
All to Dust
The tree
By the graveyard plot
Has stood, impassively
For years.
Many tears
Have been shed
Over the dead.
This old tree
Will outlast me.
Yet, it to must fall
For the churchyard plot
Calls us all
To dust
Being Blind
Being blind I find
I can read and write in the dark.
I have some small sight
So turn on the light at night
To prevent the stubbing of toes
And avoid
The stairs.
For, if I fall
All dreams and nightmares
May end
And eternal dark descend.
But the night
Will shut out the light
For us all
In the end
Whether we have blind eyes
Or otherwise.
Elegy on a Former Neighbour
I passed by
Where you once lived
And remembered how you gazed at the stars
So far away.
It is cold today
But you are lost to frost and sunshine.
You denied the divine
Yet loved the starry sky.
No telescope can see where you are gone.
Yet I think you would agree with me
That we came from stardust
And must go
Beyond where the telescope can see
With the Dark
With the dark
And the light
In my heart
I make art.
I play a part.
The stage light
Illumines the night.
For a while
I smile
Then comes the dark.
The Autumn Dark
The Autumn dark is coming down.
One day I will drown
And leave the night
And the light.
For I am bound by dark
And will not fight
The inevitable night.
Walking Though the Graveyard in the Pouring Rain
Walking through the graveyard in the pouring rain
I do not feel alone
Nor do I regret the wet
For I can feel the heavy rain
While those who sleep beneath the gravestones
Are company for me.
And these old churchyard trees
Thrive in the rain.
Superior
I can be snobby and proud.
I lose myself in crowds
But rarely feel part of them.
Sometimes I feel myself superior
To other men.
But when my final breath
Is lost in death
There will be
No inferior or superior
Just common dust
K Morris - Poet 