On Erith pier

irlandesuk poetry

On Erith pier

So I go and sit with my soul
           watch the clouds head east
see a flurry of white gulls
           begging for bread from a lady
who’s crumbling a loaf
           in a plastic bag
before hurling the pieces
           over the railings

All the while the river
           has its silence and I have mine
I note that the beauty of autumn
           rivals that of spring
the trees awash
           with radiant hues
of copper and gold
           and I nurse the notion
of changing seasons
           praying only
that the season of love
           will soon return

John Lyons

 

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Down by the river

irlandesuk art, poetry
synapses
Synapses, John Lyons (oil on canvas)

Say it
           it’s a glorious autumn day
to be sitting by the river
           at Erith with the tide out
and the mudflats revealed
           and in the distance
a white sailing boat
           leaning to starboard
and along the pier
           anglers are casting their flies
and children are playing
           on their scooters
a vast blue sky
           with white clouds
receding into the distance
           and though she is absent
and I miss her
           I still carry her in my heart
and I’m good and at peace
           and hope she is too

John Lyons

 

The archaeology of love

irlandesuk poetry

The archaeology of love

Today this Sunday
           when rain clouds hover
and the light falls
           greyly upon the world
let us delve into
           the archaeology of their love
let us examine
           with a forensic eye
the smallnesses that led
           to their separation
the petty slights that occasioned
           wounded pride
the insignificant hurts
           felt on both sides
that were simply
           not tended to in time

We need not ask
           whether it was he or she
that loved the most
           for the measure of love
is to love beyond measure
           :  just as the rose
is never more than a rose
           love too either is or it is not

And yet the heart stirs
           is human and prone
to the restless confusions
           of day and night
and the tongue is loose
           and the mind wanders
and there are times
           when even what is right
is wrong and a bruise
           needs to heal and the dust
needs to settle and a pardon
           to be bodily begged

John Lyons

 

Light to dust

irlandesuk poetry

Light to dust

How the light filters
           down through the leaves
of the tall trees that line
           the railway line
thin wafers of gold at the top
           as oxidation has its way
but still fairly green and moist
           at the base

The sun it would seem
           is both the giver
and the taker of life
           all things grow in it
and it turns all things
           to dust

John Lyons

 

What might they say ?

irlandesuk poetry

What might they say ?

What might they say of us :
that our days were numbered

that we counted our steps
in Ramsgate, Hastings Brighton Deal 

and the minutes the hours the days
when love was so precious

and time was no impediment
They’ll say that we took much pleasure

together and saw and heard and shared 
so much side by side that we seemed

necessarily inseparable
until the bitter end

What will they say ?

irlandesuk art, poetry

Black Hole
Black Hole

What will they say ?

What will they say of us :
that our days were numbered

that we counted our steps
in Oxford Cambridge Somerset Bath

and the minutes the hours the days
when love was so precious

and time was no impediment
They’ll say that we took much pleasure

together and saw and heard and did 
so much side by side that we seemed

inseparable until the bitter end

John Lyons