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.
I was three years old, my sister four.
Mom was pregnant with our little brother.
Our mother wore a beautiful dark blue
Spotty dress. Laura wore green and I pink.
…
A couple of years later, we baked with
Mom. Laura’s cupcakes were perfect, mine blue.
…
Becoming a mum in my early twenties
Changed everything. But then, doesn’t it
always? My eldest son just turned 17.
The first two years were like one thousand,
And no time at all, were the next 15.
…
It snowed today: the daffodils yellow,
bowed under the burden of heavy white.
It is spring and Mother’s Day soon. New
life appears from the ground up, but winter
isn’t quite ready to loosen its grip.
…
I have four children, but only two are
on Earth.
Mums are the keepers of memories,
Hope and grief. Side by side, they grow.
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 spaces between the clouds
are secret stories waiting
To be found
By someone who cranes their neck
And stares for a little while,
Just watching
To discover a treasure
That most never know about.
So look up.
Patches of blue peeking through,
Like a child behind curtains
Playing hide
And seek, giggling quietly
As they crouch in the shadows
Patiently
Waiting for you to find them.
But first, you have to stop for
A while. Take a deep breath and
Just look up.
I lie on my back
on the bench in
the winter garden,
watching the clouds
rush by. They may be
Busy, not I.
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