The below poem contains an expletive. I make no apology for this, as poetry should be honest:
“The foxes are fucking“, you said.
A vulgar thing to say,
But we where on our way
To bed.
And I,
Hearing their cry
Pondered on lust
And the vulgarity of you.
But what you said was true.
And we 2 could see
That oft in lust
We hide from dust.
A poet entranced
By branches that dance
In summertime.
Lost in rhyme
he walks the same
Woodland path
After sweet rain.
Nature laughs
As branches pour
Forth their store
Of sweet summer rain
I open my window
And let in his cry
With the chill night air.
He is out there
Somewhere in the dark park,
Or the churchyard nearby.
I closed my
Window against the chill air.
He remained there,
(For how long I
Can not say).
Then his cry
Seemed to fade away.
When I last passed
This way
I recall no wall
Of wild wet flowers.
That bloom
In May
In the summertime
Flowers will bloom
Still. But in wintertime
Who will recall
This rain-kissed wall
Of springtime and rhyme.
I yawn
In the early morn.
A bark
Pierces the dark.
The carpet is warm
Against my bare
Feet. While out there
The fox’s word
Is heard
Ere I sleep.
| On leaving
The half-empty pub On a spring Evening, I heard birdsong. I love These chill Nights , when the trill Of birds is heard On the still Street. Their unconscious art Calls to my sad Glad heart. It was always so. And I know Their song will remain Until I gain The churchyard path Where all must pass.
|
Under spring sky
I touched blossom
Temporary as I.
I recall the nesting box
On my grandfather’s shed.
Blue Tits laid their eggs.
Some grew, and flew
Away.
January seems dead.
Yet, in the churchyard birds
Sing.
And, come the spring
Birds will lay in boxes
To the delight
Of young children.
And foxes bark
In the depths of night.
I often find
The fox’s bark
Fills my mind.
How fast the light
Fades in woodland glades
And becomes the dark
Of suffocating night.
In the park
Where children play
His cold, sharp bark
Seems to say
You spend your day
In the sun
But the night
Blots out light
And your day
Is done.
(The final stanza is very long compared to the first 2 and I am not sure how the poem hangs together. Would welcome the views of my readers. Thanks. Kevin).
On 3 December, I published this poem, https://kmorrispoet.com/2022/12/03/i-passed-a-log/. Below is a slightly reworked version of my composition entitled A Fallen Tree:
A fallen tree
Spoke to me
On a
December day.
Once it stood
In ancient wood.
Now I
Pass by
As December grows colder
And I ever older.
K Morris - Poet 