I recall
How an old bough,
Ready to fall,
Blocked the woodland path.
I passed
Pushing it away
On a winter’s day
As birds sang.
The bough still hangs.
It must fall.
And I will recall
How I passed
That old broken bough
On the path
And how birds sang.
In honour of the passing Autumn, I am reposting a reading of my poem Autumn Fly
https://soundcloud.com/kevin-stephen-morris/autumn-fly
The eternal wind roared last night
Bringing thoughts of Wuthering Heights.
No Heathcliff threw open the window
Imploring Cathy to come in .
Yet I felt the storm grin.
How quickly the lights
Of pubs and clubs go out.
And the reveller’s shout
Is lost in wind and night.
I heard an ugly sawing sound
As an old oak came down.
It was the tree or the wall
That had to fall
So the old oak had to go.
Looking out my window
I see another ancient tree
Looking back at me.
It’s greenery gave me shade
During the recent heatwave.
This tree was here long before I came
And may well remain
When I am one with wind and rain.
But all things fall
In the end, however much we pretend it is not so.
This tree will go
And another grow. Well, I hope tis so.
I leave dry leaves behind.
Yet, I find
Leaves still whisper to me
Of my mortality.
Often they sound the same as rain.
I will return again
For they are part of my heart.
And poetry may live on
When I am gone.
While the rain will remain
There have been countless men
Over the centuries. But when
The poet sees a myriad fallen leaves
He knows these leaves must outnumber men.
And men fall like leaves.
Is not the insect on this tree
Happier than me?
He will live and die
In this wood
As I pass by pondering on love.
He knows naught of sorrow,
Or poets who rhyme of borrowed time
And a tomorrow
That may never come.
He leaves his mark on decaying bark
And knows not why.
While I leave this brief rhyme behind.
The rain has come.
Some wait for the sun.
I wonder about thunder
And think on the tree
Outside my window.
In all probability
It will outlast me.
Though storm may bring it low
Ere I go
To become as one with sun
And life-giving rain.
Alone, I walk the woodland path.
No one with whom to laugh
While in the endless sky
A plane goes by
As I dwell on love.
But birds still sing
In autumn and spring,
And I have this wood
And the autumn sun.
K Morris - Poet 