The dark comes quickly on.
Leaves fall in the park.
And I remember that early September
Has come, bringing Autumn.
And summer has gone.
But I can not repent
Of autumn’s sweet scent
Or grieve over fallen leaves
For she is beauty.
These fallen leaves
Blown by Autumn breeze
Call to me
And say, “be free”
The wild wind
Blows strong and free.
While these leaves
Blow hither and thither
In the breeze.
I would rather be
The eternal wind.
But if I could fly
Like these Autumn leaves.
I might, for a while
Feel I was free.
Autumn leaves must turn to dust
And young lovers who once dallied
By the life-giving stream
Enter death’s dark Alley
And forever dream.
Through the open door of the surgery
Comes the summer breeze.
Often the wind sings in the tree
Or plays with leaves
Fallen on the path. And in these leaves
And the windswept tree
I know we are bound for the ground.
I am delighted to announce that my collection of poems “The Churchyard Yew and Other Poems” is available on Amazon in Kindle format. The Paperback should be available in the next couple of days, and I will post links to it once the book goes live.
The photograph on the book cover shows the churchyard of St John the Evangelists Church in Upper Norwood. The photograph was taken by my friend Michelle Whiteside.
The book description reads as follows:
A miscellany of poems about nature, passing time and relationships.
If you read “The Churchyard Yew” please do consider reading a review on Amazon.
For the UK
For the US
On a late March day
The spring hides away.
The sun may come
Interspersed with cold rain.
Perhaps I should go
In search of a rainbow
For I am told
That rainbows lead to gold.
I doubt tis so
But a rainbow
In a poor poet’s heart
Is surely art
And worth more than gold.
Sometimes I dwell on the impermanence of things.
In early spring the birds sing.
And I pass by grass green from rain.
But the grass will not stay.
The mower will come in sun or rain
And make sweet hay.
But the hay will rot away.
Rain will return again
And I will pass by grass
Lush from the rain
Until I am as the hay.
How soon the scent
Of blossom is spent
In the rain.
These little flowers
No not hours,
While I pass by
In unending rain.
Birds on a March evening.
Such beauty and grieving
For we all must sleep,.
Sometimes I almost weep
For birds in the evening
Will sing on
When I am gone.
Yet this night
I shall take delight
In evening birds.
For the graveyard plot
Has no song.
I heard a solitary bird
Sing over tombs
On a sunny February day.
I know gloom
And beauty
While he
Knows not mortality.
K Morris - Poet 