The clouds are roiling,
Seemingly spoiling for a fight.
The fern is unfurling,
Nearly see-through in the light.
The sparrow rests for a second,
before quietly taking flight.
A tiny spider clings
to bluebells that are white.
And after a day of toiling,
Settles down for the night.
The tiny leaf
flutters in the
blustery breeze.
I thought it
was a moth, at
first: so alive.
Finally, it
rests on the soft
Autumnal soil.
With its sisters,
it soundly sleeps.
Alex Dixon 19/11/2023
Something that gives a sense of joy or safety. For example, hugging your pet or watching a beautiful sunset.
I notice glimmers a lot now. I have always appreciated time spent watching the clouds or drawing, or anything that gives me some peace or joy. But now, with my days limited, I see the little treasures more easily because I can’t take them for granted anymore.
Autumn is my favourite season. Partly beacause the heat and headache-inducing brightness of summer is over, and partly because nature is so beautiful as it prepares for another season of death and cold in the Winter.
I breathe in the cool clean air and stamp on crunchy red and yellow leaves. The conkers, blackberries and apples appear. Sunny, frosty days are the best. Night time is great for snuggling in blankets with hot chocolate and a book.
God reminded me today, though nature, that sometimes the season of waiting for death can be the most precious.
I don’t know how many Autum days I have left to enjoy. But I am glad that I have today.
A time of eggs, rabbits and cherry blossom.
Lawnmowers, waking after a winter’s rest.
Holidays, hot-cross buns and yellow bonnets.
Celebrating fertility and new life.
Relief that the darkness of winter is
finally gone. Enjoying the sun of spring.
Yet in the centre of all this verdant life,
sits death.
The death of one man: one king: one God.
Jesus.
He who chose to die, beaten and bleeding.
Mocked and murdered. He wanted this.
He died as a sacrifice, for all of us.
He died to make us right with God our Father.
Three terrible, dark days he lay entombed.
But he knew. He beat it. He is stronger.
He died once and for all.
One for all.
And when the chocolate has been eaten,
the leaves fall defeated from the weary trees,
The darkness and chill of winter rules again,
I will still have hope.
When my knackered body finally gives up,
I know that I will still live, with my God.
The God who chose to die, who gave up his life.
The tiniest sunflower
peeks its head out.
Its petals unfurl
to face the sun.
Yellow as butter.
Perfect like a picture.
The sun warms its face
and if flowers could have feelings,
then this one is happy.
The wind whispering
Through chilly trees
Sounds like sand on shore
After a wave hits.
One dry yellow leaf
Swiftly falls from its
mother tree’s branch
And an apple clumps
Softly on the lawn.
A toad hides under
A fallen leaf,
Alert for danger.
The labrador jumps,
Trying to catch him:
But misses by miles, Settles instead for
Chomping a spider.
Her web-smeared black
Nose sniffing loudly,
Hoping for more snacks.
She smells wood fire
On the breeze. Shivering,
Heads back inside to
Her humans’ sofa.
6 October 2022 is National Poetry Day.
Why don’t you write a poem? It’s easy to do and doesn’t have to rhyme. Write about what you like, or how you are feeling. 🙂
For more info, go to:
https://nationalpoetryday.co.uk
The National Literacy Trust helps children and families to develop a love of reading and writing. They have great resources and a local site for people from Swindon, called Swindon Stories.
September’s first sunset
Is candyfloss fluffy
Pink on watercolour
Azure. The drought-cracked ground
Thirsts desperately for rain.
Yellow, salmon, crimson
Roses scent the cool air.
Perfectly formed, like
Fragile, living sculptures
Too good for this world.
Sparrows fly overhead,
Heading for lofty nests.
Juicy soft blackberries
Are waiting to be picked
And cooked in jams and pies,
Just like when we were kids.
The nights are creeping in,
I can breathe again.
Autumn has arrived.
The air is heavy.
Thick with humidity,
The scent of over-ripe fruit
And a barbecue.
Summer’s last nights
Are honey-sticky.
The leaves are already falling,
Worn out by drought.
The apples are red
And insect-marked.
It’s still too hot to
breathe properly,
But Autumn is coming soon.
The Sparrows call call call
Loudly to each other
From the rooftops, seven
On a Sunday morning.
The magpies soar soar soar
Their black and white feathers
Flashing in the spring sun
As they look for breakfast.
The blackbird sing sing sings
His beautiful song from
The apple tree’s bent branch
Whose buds are still tiny.
Fluffy clouds fly fly fly
Past high above my head,
In a rush, places to
Go, people to rain on.
The wooden gate
Breeze buffeted,
Squeaks just like a
Guinea pig.
Crows caw loudly.
Screaming seagulls
In the grey sky
Overhead.
Tiny buds on
My cherry tree
Wait faithfully
For the spring.
Just another blog 