autumn

You creep in slowly

Your patches of gold scuttle up through the boughs

Like sneaky imps

I blink once, twice,

My sleepy eyes are still full of summer

I blink again, for what seems like

Just a second

But I know

When I next open my eyes

You’ll be everywhere

Autumn

only romance

The sun grows larger in the sky

Wind whispers the river along

The little waves, they dance and sigh

Spurred onwards by sweetest bird song

The ground is still awash with dew

Morning’s magic fairy tale spell

The petals shimmer pink and blue

As flower blossoms plump and swell

The weeping willows stand and bow

Their leaves caress the mossy stone

Of gard’ners who once wondered how

To tame the earth with plough and hoe

But only romance does remain

Since nature tangles lovers’ hearts

With feathered fingers, writes their names,

And binds them so they shan’t depart

Yes, now the world seems sapphire still

Bright crystal clearness all around

Oh never leave! This moment will

Grow longingly whilst dreams abound

start

What a thing it is to start to know who you are

As blurred lines become sharp, and old wounds fade to scars

It’s like a rippling feeling, as your heart turns inside out

And all that you are is no longer all you are without.

I sometimes have a moment when I can sense all who I am

All who I could be,

All that I should be,

All I’d like to be

And I think,

“Hey! This is perfect.

This is the greatest.

This is just right.”

And I climb to the highest height

And there is a blur, and a whir, and a swipe, and a “yip”

But I miss, and fall down, hard,

And I think, “No, this can’t be it.”

But I am always changing

I am a thing of the world

And I, like the rocks, the trees,

the birds, the leaves,

The sand in my hand, slipping through open fingers,

I too must change, must move

Must find my groove

Must make way for a new

Momentous epiphany

And discover me,

once more,

always, again,

and so I do…

I keep going

And sometimes

I make a start

monday morning snapshot

It is Monday morning. I sit at my kitchen table. The house is tidy but the table is a mess. My sewing machine is out and the table is strewn with pins, measuring tape, buttons, spools of thread. It is a happy chaos.

The kitchen door is open and the light streams in through the glass. There is a blue sky outside, a result not to be sniffed at, given the grey tendencies of the weather these past few days, or weeks. Here in London, the sunshine is a rarity and worshiped like a god.

I sip the last few mouthfuls of my now cold tea. I listen to a plane fly overhead, and I wonder where it has come from. I scratch my head and purse my lips a little. The day is upon me and I must decide my strategy.