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Seasons

To each a season: the planets Turn in Kepler's gyre, Swelling the mental weather, Fattening the wealth Of light and dark I weekly Feel in my own solitude. To each a season: a death Of what was hard and cold: A burst of sun to break My hoary sadness And gild the shining tower I build around your smile. But let's not talk of sun But speak instead of life And all the things I feel When living through mortality. The lovely times We feast and meagre times We only feed on memories. I have my seasons. Tim Holt-Wilson
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Pandemic

Piecing together all our hopes and dreams, joining the broken fragments of our lives, managing the pain of another loss, full of joy when finally together, society’s fabric hangs by a thread. Julia Duke
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To Dance Beneath the Pine

In a storm I glimpse my soul Searching for lost branches Fallen to the wind Decomposing with time. Michelle  
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Ode to a Tilted Tree

Your body tilted Your leaves wilted Your energy royal, your friendship loyal. But you are discouraged and tired of being sparingly admired. Your head bends steadily towards the water, The by-standers do not seem to bother to listen to the stories you can reveal, Allowing the history and your presence to heal the wounds one carries in her mind; You seem exhausted yet humbly kind. Welcoming strangers with a warm embrace Your wrinkled skin and a weather-beaten face contrasts with a jovial and mischievous grace of the young branches so naive but stable… How much you must be grateful - for these smooth slender arms, With your inner protection nothing harms.   Anon .
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Woodpecker Squall

The five feathers of Autumn weather Were a woodpecker’s downed chatter Under an Oaks wings And the rain’s prism sang in my lashes Over and over Ring in fast skies September October The beak of the sky Pummelled the wood But I dried it’s staccato why By waving the feathers of my hand Until the spots merged Back to fine weather Then left altogether. Stephen Kirin
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Ecocide II. Lost Madagascan Solitude

Sloping crystalline falling away skies nudge a luxuriant forested isle - wide-eyed tree-skipping lemur-strewn  - obediently it slides eastward, ever further distant from anchoring shores. A boat-less earth. Hunched up blood-licking apes locked into fruit-held rift valleys. Sharpening their flints. The sautéing sifaka, jitters, nervy, princely pirouettes. Esoteric treasure trove, trust-bound, assembled exotica anciently unfolds. In solitude, a jolly party contained together in pacific balance: reptilian bug-eyed chameleons sure and slow-footed, shy slinking Fossa, a lone long-fingered aye-aye absentmindedly tapping out dangerous omens in primeval morse code. Waves crash, anguished howls - one rogue boatful with hungry bellies and hatchets. Chameleons adjust multi-coloured jackets - to hide away fast. The island’s grizzled chains slip their moorings grind down Noah’s Ark of charms. Axes sear, slice, ricochet Malagasy’s pristine wonders slump - wounded, bloodied, defiled. The world’s ...
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Alcoholic abuse

You don’t deserve me You want to hurt me Stay away from my life Not just after the strife. The drink shows it’s colours Back to your mothers I wait for release My confidence decreases. Your Pattern repeats I forget to eat earnings gone straight away Your lies betray. Your counsellor speaks clearly I speak merely Your abstinence lasts one day. You walk with a sway. It’s seems your Impulse And stench I repulse Has a firm grip My friends I skip. Alcoholic alert The marriage subverts The kids stay quiet Drink, the fathers diet. At parents evening, you appear To have drunk a beer Your cheeks flushed red We see the Head. Concern for your son He’s ten plus one Shouts in class His yells, a mask. You appear nonchalant No reflection for your enfant I answer and sigh And strangely deny. It’s all happy at home Our life full of chrome George never shouts We see him about. Homework’s all done Problems we shun Tempers I doubt Mealtimes Throughout. Joyce
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Social Distance

Hot and sultry, early June, sitting on my doorstep, late afternoon, watching the traffic flying by: skylarks, melodious, up high; swallows above the stable, diving around the sky; buzzards in tandem, cruising above the dark woods; rooks, darkly purposeful, circling over the pines; wood-pigeons, fat and fast, flying noisily by; two pairs of wild geese landing in the paddock; low-flying blackbird dashing across my field of vision; bumblebee, bluebottle, ladybird buzzing about the apple tree. To say nothing of the that on the ground: magpie striding decisively; a gang of crows on the path, conspiratorial; fifteen guinea fowl in haste, holding their skirts, their rasping calls jarring; yearling pea-hen, tame, hand-reared, pecking my bare toe; two little partridges scurrying by; a pheasant in his finery; a pair of collared doves, courting prettily; five hens, four black and one gold, busy-bodying around; two cockerels, one young, the other magnificent, strutting self-importantly. Oh so bus...
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Who Is Saving The World?

The recycler, bicycler, bio-masser and solar paneller, the sustainable developer, the charity worker, the medics (sans frontieres?), fundraisers and carers, givers and listeners, growers of organics, designers of biodegradables. Genetic engineers? Surgeons and researchers, forgivers and forgetters, Billy the bug hunter, Immy the mathematician, Troy the paratriathelete, Wendy the wigwam maker. The ones who go last, the ones who smile, the ones who don’t want to argue about it, the ones who give up their seat, the ones who calm a storm, the ones who cook up a feast, the ones who sing praises, the ones who shine, Auntie Gwen and Malala…… ….and I drink water from a glass bottle. Sue Foster Image by Fernando via Unsplash .
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S.A.D

The black dog Shook his weary head Stay in bed He said. The black dog Followed me again Munching biscuits Lost energies for meals. The black dog Didn’t go for walks For three weeks He stayed inside. Not answering his calls The black dog remained silent Until Spring. Chris
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