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Feathers

It’s as if all the birds
In every weather
Had dropped every feather
The weight sometimes
Of all those why's
A ton of lead
Or a ton of words unsaid
Down on a feathered bed
The weight belies
The width of squawks
When the birds are dead
And they sing remembering
When a ton of song
Weighed the same as
Fly away Autumns
Flu away fall
Feather or not
Bird at all.

Stephen Kirin

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White Hawthorns

The day speaks of white hawthorn Sundays Long washed out road trips, reluctant relatives waving you off on arrival. Rain from decades passed, a swishing of glimpses. Parents cramped and fretful. Passing through a littered accompaniment of faceless outlines. Stretched out warming children, car sick, scrunch up weathered newspapers. Pungent smells of nostalgia, almost Springs bouncing forward hours. Eager sweet wrappers lunge for half opened windows to adorn the floating blossom clouds of hawthorn bushes, March’s winds step in much like a bone-chilled but amiable hitch hiker. A querulous sibling rolls over, sickening, falls out in a screeching of tires. Tearfully rain-splattered. Another weekend pulled out and pegged up, redolent of adolescences quickly traversed. Mark Ereira-Guyer
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Lace-like Shadows

Dancing with lace-like shadows of forgotten worlds, the tortoiseshell creeps slowly, the last energies to lie upon the rough bark. With folded wings, Madame butterfly is no more til Spring. Charlotte
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Always with Us

The morning is cold, The sky is black, An emotion called grief, Is on your back. The storm is ferocious, Emotions peek and trough, The boat is disabled, By our indescribable loss. Gradually the storm, Will begin to ease, Giving breath to talk, Reflect and believe. But just round the corner, With just the breeze, The storm returns, You are on your knees. The sea is unpredictable, The sails carry us along, We begin to feel, Our loved one isn’t gone. With love and care, These storms will pass, The boat’s in order, The sails half mast. It’s a long journey, The boat begins to move with grace, It makes you feel relaxed, And puts a smile on your face, We can recall the memories, With all the love in our heart, They will always be with us, We will never be apart.   by Tonya  
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The Funeral Arranger

The widow was strung up with tension The son’s body like a rag doll he held his mother’s hand as if with superglue -no tears-the air felt like treacle. “what sort of coffin would you like?”… Clare
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Treasure Chest

A Spanish treasure Adrift, washed ashore To sea shingle Dunwich beach In fifteenth Century A lost key. Sue
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Let Me Play

Children at play filled with innocence, Trees in the playground where they hide. Running, shouting no cares in the world, Waves of freedom flows higher than the tide. In that playground stands a child all alone, Fraught with sadness, with nobody to play. His dejection surges as his tears threaten, Just wishing a shrill of a whistle would end the day. Being so alone is a solitary game, Thoughts of “what have I done” The shrills and screams of play, Ending a game for those that won. Standing all alone playtime is long, Children running all unaware, He stands still alone, Envy and sadness, he stands just to stare. Sheridan
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Charcoal Smudges, Bury St. Edmunds

Sugar beet smoke Choking my town I cycle home past Greene King Smudged by the charcoal wind Mike
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Something is Stirring

Underneath parched brown leaves, curled, crumbled remnants of winter, a new stirring. Something in earth’s ancient time clock signals to tiny organisms. It is wake-up time. Something deep, irrepressible, mysterious is on the move. Sap begins to flow. The winter sun is still low in the sky but it has a little residual warmth. It warms the earth. Like human nerve endings messaging the brain, the warm earth sends its invisible, long-awaited signals to bulbs, tubers and roots buried under their mulch of winter leaf mould. Tiny shoots appear on desiccated roots; small tendrils, coiled foetus-like beneath the soil, start to unfurl, reaching for the light. From brown to darkened shades of red, from red to green, finally the world sheds its winter weeds, reaches for its habitual cloak of green. From the stillness of its deep slumber, something living, something new is stirring. From death to life, from darkness into light, a new creation is emerging from the depths as surely as year succeeds t...
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Searching For My Soul

In a perishing wind Fallen to the wayside I search for my soul. Matt
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Stone Souls

Abbey stones Hold tales of the untold A rich tapestry of thoughts, Echoes and patterns and times ancient by. Of weathered landscapes Broken angel wings, Jumbled thoughts and crumbling terracotta Secrets lie beneath. Of drifting monks And whispering clouds Beneath us lies Hidden skulls The stone souls.   b y Art Branches recovery project group
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