As I in melancholy thought stood
In yonder wood
My attention was caught
By a path of light.
Oh to take flight
Down that track
Without looking back.
But as I neared
That path disappeared,
And I do lack
The will to go forward or back.
A beautiful butterfly
Flutters by
And a gentle breeze
Russles the leaves
Of fine old trees.
Where shadows dance
Couples may see,
By some lucky chance,
The otter wild and free
That dreams
In woodland streams.
Standing on the street
With dusty feet,
They gazed
Amazed
At the museum of yesteryear,
While far and near
Stretched the asphalt drear.
The poet does capture
Beauty’s rapture
In verse.
How perverse
That in his desire to ignite
Delight
In another’s heart
With his art,
So much of his precious time
Is lost in rhyme.
What does that blind man do
Gazing through
Empty space
As though he could trace
In thin air
Something you and me
Dare not see?
Walking back from the park,
His thoughts dark.
A sense of grief
At the lack of belief.
Then came the wind chimes,
Signifying nought but rhymes?
Walking through the churchyard
I heard
you talking.
Your word
Was gentle then,
A breeze
Whispering amongst the leaves,
But when
You In anger blow
The wise know
That your breath
Augurs death,
For we reap what we sow.
I heard
An Autumn bird
Sing to me
From a tree,
As I took
A short-cut
Through the grounds
Of the doctor’s surgery.
An autumn girl.
Falling leaves whirl.
Trees naked stand
Their branches reaching for the great sky
And I.
Sitting in this autum garden I
Hear aircraft from the nearby
Airport. The breeze
Rustles in the trees,
Then modernity’s din
Muscles in yet again,
As another plane
Flies by
Competing with the wind’s sigh.
Those with greying hair
Linger where
Fallen leaves proliferate.
It is growing late.
Dare I broach
The final gate
We all must approach?
A conker I found
On the ground.
Still in it’s prickly clothes,
Yet to be disclosed.
“I aught
To leave you here” I thought.
“You may, for all I know
Grow into a great tree”.
But another voice in me
Said “some other will take you away, if I leave you here on the grass
For many people here pass”.
So I took you home
As my own.
On my sill
You sit, waiting to spill
Your seed.
Was it need
Or greed
That made the virile
Sterile.
Would that I could
Get to the root
Of this drying fruit.
K Morris - Poet 