The Wind From The Sun

THE WIND

The wind from the sun buffets the worlds.

It streams over the lavas of Caloris;

It presses fiery fingers into Cytherean storms.

Here, over Peary Land its shimmering curtains

Dance in the dark when the great bears

And the Great Bear shiver in the night.

Into Imbrium’s dust it throws its ions,

Sweeping on to bombard defenceless Tharsis

And the unplumbed Valley of the Mariner.

About The King it places twin circlets

And around His aged father too.

The wind is fading now as it sweeps

Past the far Frost Giants and across

The dim Styx and its Ferryman.

At last, in the silent darkness

The wind flutters and dies; fades and falls.

But there in the depths of endless night

For a moment it meets other winds

And listens lovingly to their tales.

Autumn

The year is turning once again
as rust and sand invade the leaves.
The sun rises in a veil of mist
and in pale skies birds turn to Africa.


I look out over these ochre trees
and remember their green loveliness.
Such a short while since I felt the first bud
and dreamed of coming sunkissed days.


The sun retreats, defeated, to the south,
soon to hide behind the shadowed hills.
There is damp decay upon the winds
that hints of greater griefs that wait their call.


And I too look upon my own Autumn,
My own change from bursting bud to Fall.
and yet – beyond the ice and dark there is hope,
hope for golden warmth again for the bud


And sunblest kisses once more for her and me.

The Note I Never Wrote

I tried to write a note to you,
A note that would reveal my heart,
But what to use to write my part,
How to send these words so few?

The iPad seems so wrong, so cold,
The laptop glows a baleful blue
and does not nurse sweet thoughts of you
with menu bars and text in bold.

My typewriter lies in its cloth of dust,
Its keys now grimed and stiff with age.
Could it print thoughts on this page
before it lies in a shroud of rust?

I sat before the ancient tool
and looked down with nervous care.
It seemed to me that your face was there
Smiling at me, your earnest fool.

I saw my note before me then,
The words I’d say, the love I’d send,
The hurt and pain I’d softly mend
and how our time should come again.

I took the sheet and planned my pleas,
Placed my hands on the aged thing.
So now it was my words would sing!
My hands came down and met the keys.

They did not stir; they did not move.
My thoughts flew not from mind to ink.
I sat and felt those sweet dreams sink,
trapped forever in an endless groove.

Would love have grown from that hopeful note?
Would we have kissed in the summer sun?
I only know that our time is done,

Dead as the note that I never wrote.