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.
The wind is fresh
Carrying the scents of life and death.
While from a tree
The autumn leaves are falling on me.
I lose myself in rhymes
Of passing time
And others who once stood
In autumn’s wood.
My friend collects acorns from leaf-strewn lawns
Hoping that Oaks may grow.
Others may see the fully grown tree.
While we will not know.
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.
Walking home in the pouring rain
I pondered on AI
And those who continue to maintain
The inevitability of progress.
The rain continued to fall.
Although I heard
No human word
Nature seemed to laugh
As I passed
Along the familiar churchyard path.
I am conscious of the breeze
In the trees
As the vehicles pass me by.
Back at my flat
I go to my open window
And hear the eternal breeze
Passing through the trees.
In my place of work there is a poetry club of which I am a member. We meet on a monthly basis and discuss 2-3 poems. In May, the club where kind enough to allow me to read several poems from my recently published collection, “Passing Through: Some Thoughts on Life and Death”.
At next week’s meeting we will be discussing Housman’s “Tell Me Not Here, it Needs Not Saying”. The poem (which is one of my favourites) was suggested by me. You can find a reading of it by the poet Andrew Motion here https://poetryarchive.org/poem/tell-me-not-here-it-needs-not-saying/.
“Passing Through: Some Thoughts on Life and Death” is available in Kindle and paperback, and can be found here Passing Through: Some thoughts on life and death: Amazon.co.uk: Morris, K: 9798284279151: Books
I awoke to rain today.
I will walk where water drips
From spring leaves and flowers
For time slips away
And all our little hours
Are brief as butterflies,
Who flit by without a sigh.
I leave the pub behind
And find
In the song of birds
The truth not heard
In the words
Of men
Who prate and hate.
So I listen to birds
And purifying rain
For there is no hate
In birds or rain.
Touching this tall old tree
I wonder what feels real to me:
This church of cold stone
Where people go to show their religiosity,
Or this rough bark
Warm from the spring sun.
It is the bark
That calls to my heart
And this gentle sun.
I long for the wet woods
Where the rainy breeze
Is full of flowers and leaves
And the damp earth
Speaks of death and rebirth.
I love the wood
When birds sing after rain.
I will surely die,
And Mother Nature will remain.
But we are forever part
Of nature’s great heart.
Her vital cycle of birth,
Death and good earth.
K Morris - Poet 