High Tide
In the high tide
of darkness,
in the cold,
the wet
and wind blown,
the new dawn
waits off stage,
waiting for the surge
of winter,
the blindness
of January,
in seeds
of clouds
and moon,
waiting to be sown,
and below,
the huddled rooftops,
behind alder,
beech
and yew,
the village church
points skywards,
and chimes
to the world,
time unfolding
the hours anew.
For it’s a long way
to summer,
and autumns long
and fallen,
in the leaves across
the empty country lane,
and so to walk
into the morning,
with coat,
hat and scarf,
and believe
that April
will come
once again.
Feel free to contact me. Be nice to know who my audience is and perhaps you can suggest some further topics or themes for my writing! And do give me feedback!
p1964km@googlemail.com
