You guide me around the branch
Which once danced
But now lies on the path
As you and I
Pass by.
It is now gone
But the tree lives on.
While you, my old friend,
Know not all things must end
And simply guide me
Round a branch
Once part of a tree.
We dance
And smile
For a little while
And then pass
As the summer grass
That turns to hay.
But you, my friend,
Are happy
In your ignorance of branch
And tree
Early March.
Winter’s last blast
Tries to deny
The spring
Autumn has not yet come.
Yet the sun shines
On dry leaves.
I find in my mind
That Autumn has come
And my leaves
Have Turned to grey.
But I am still here
In this fading year
Though my May
Has long since run away.
We go through birth.
Then, like leaves
We feed the earth.
But before we fall
We enjoy the bird’s call.
Though none can outrun
The setting sun.
The leaves lie thicker on the path
Than the last time I passed.
I can not count them.
But, like we men
All leaves fall
And rhymes
End
As I stood
In the leaf-strewn wood
Listening to birdsong,
I heard the leaves
Falling from trees
And thought how short
Is our birdsong.
And the Autumn breeze
Scented with leaves
Spoke of the joy
Of temperate days.
Yes, everything must decay.
But autumn lawns
Are covered in acorns
And children play
As I once did
When I hid
Amidst these Autumn trees
And fallen leaves.
In early spring
A flock of pigeons takes flight.
A blackbird sings.
I could decide to go inside
As the temperature has dropped.
Yet, the blackbird has not stopped
His song, which brings delight.
So I stay as the day
Moves, imperceptibly, towards the night.
In early spring,
In the hospital garden
No birds sing.
Or perhaps its me
With my thoughts of mortality
Who fails to hear
When they sing to men.
.
Copyright: Kevin Morris.
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.
I duck as I go
For the wind has bent a bough low
And toppled a street sign.
A winter breeze makes random patterns with leaves.
The wind has no time
For our certainties and lines.
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
