Lullaby to a garden

 

To my sleeping garden
this weightless lullaby
a quiet outlook from a frosty window

As in grey winter light
the blackbird is black
and the grass is revealed with the rigour of morn

As the sycamore gone
still inhabits the sky
and homeless the grey heron flies

So my patience is wantless
and serene and full
live as the silence of prayer

For now is the night
for us both to dream
and entrust deeper roots to the stillness of love

And now is the time
for the fire to glow
and ashes be true
to snow

 

 

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First frost

 

Mid-November
On trees finally, their October gowns of liquid amber.
Morning walk – blades and veins
Seized by the meticulous hand of frost
Lines from which Winter shall be drawn.
Slowly
Slumber befalls those plants which to Summer offer
Largesse of smiles and flesh.
I too
Am awaiting the hour
When darkness boils into fervour.