Weathered

This poem is the child of the previous post - a development rooted in the same experience.

The wind chases bright fractured

gleams over the grey sea,

the tree-dark green

of the encircling hill -

tosses the petals with small regard

for their fragile beauty.

The sun comes only in

short bursts punctuating

the fat grey of the clouds

gestating tirelessly above my head.

In such a way it too comes -

I cannot call it He, this vastness

with its divine connotations

randomly and so seldom here.

But were it summer heat

always, without the aching

chill of clouded skies,

would I ever know the

sudden searing joy

of unexpected warmth?

©C.M.M.

Morning, July

After the night of wind and rain
I went out into the startled garden
where the white blossom littered
the ground beneath the scented bush
and shreds of tree lay torn on the ruffled
grass. From a tall chimney a gull
wailed in some unknown grief
and magpies bickered in the holly tree
brittle among the pruned crown's thorns.


No warmth to still the restless mind
or please with easy mindless toil
of pruning, cutting, lifting weeds -
no. This is where we live our days
as light flies over restless sea
and lights on us so fleetingly
that joy results, and glows within -
so come, then, wind, into my soul
and startle me with transience.

©C.M.M.