The tinkle of windchimes
And birdsong heard in my mum’s garden
Brought into my mind
Life’s great beauty, and thoughts of mortality.
The Tinkle of Windchimes
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Tag Archives: the natural world
In the Hospital Garden, in Early Spring
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.
Twilight
Just a single, solitary, call,
From a bird heard in the hospital garden
As the twilight
Was swallowed by night.
.
Copyright: Kevin Morris
Birds Heard on a Hospital Ward
I heard birds in the hospital.
I thought their calls
Came to me through solid walls.
But the doctor said
The birds I heard where recorded sound.
Yet it was profound
For when I am dead
There will be no sound to hear
Of birds or friend’s words.
I cast no shadow on the ward
So will walk in sunshine
While there is time.
Prams
I see babies in prams pass me by.
The seasons merge into 1
And I sigh for what is going fast,
And may already be gone.
The sound of carefree children touches me.
I must grope for hope
When women give birth on warming earth
To children who will not see
The season’s cycle as it should be.
Mating Season
I heard foxes in the night
There screams of delight
Mingled with wild wind and rain
As I lay alone
Listening for the owl’s lonely cry.
Failure?
We passed by a tree
Brought down by the gale.
While others momentarily stood
In the ancient wood.
All things fail
And birds, unaware
Sing on with no care
For fallen trees or poetry.
Poet Kevin Morris Reading his Poem Autumn Fly
In honour of the passing Autumn, I am reposting a reading of my poem Autumn Fly
https://soundcloud.com/kevin-stephen-morris/autumn-fly
How Soon the Lights Go Out
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 Leave Dry Leaves
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
K Morris - Poet 