If you go down. . .

I walk in the same woods
           where I was born many years ago
ancient woodland
           down by the railway track
here where the smell of decay
           is matched by the odour
of fresh vegetation
           my story unfolding
amid the ferns and fungi
           in the understory
where the light struggles
           to break through

What is this thing called life ?
           Time and energy made me
as it makes all things
           just as a king is a thing
and I have travelled so far
           to be back where I started

John Lyons

You think ?

Rose without thorns
           there is no delight
in the absence
           of challenge

John Lyons

Tracings

Tracing of lines
           the poet
the painter
           the lover
fingers poring
           over a map
over a canvas
           or a body
hovering over
           a piece of paper
or keyboard
           the mind that sees
in sequence
           the voice
sings
           as it composes
love within
           the narrative
the trail we leave
           behind us

John Lyons

Philosophical

At midday I notice a fox
           sitting Buddha-like
on the shed roof
           motionless

from its vantage point
           it appears to be lost
in thought
           as it stares out into space

with its fine thick well-fed fur
           it looks a picture of health
and seems not to have
           a care in the world

a white cat with
           black patches
enters its field of vision
           but the fox does not stir
a philosophical fox
           that lives and lets live

John Lyons

Borne up by the body

Words and what we make of them
           what we make with them
the neverending
           riverrun of words
that advance in leaps and bounds
           or that sing birdsong or the praises
of a rose its thorns set aside
           or of your beauty under the rise
and fall of the sun
           your daily body and thoughts
as you move about your business
           as you are seen here and there
and as you are loved here
           in the presence of my heart

The token of words spoken
           palatable words that make
of the mouth a shrine
           the tongue never still
in its devotion
           words caught in the light
of your eyes
           and on your live lips

John Lyons

The bitter cold

Now as the light fades
           the sky turns ice blue
heralding a bitter wind
           from the north
I shiver as I wait
           for the train and along
the station platform
           I see others rubbing
their hands or hopping
           on their feet to keep warm

In the coming hours
           the temperature will drop
still further but I will be in
           out of the cold
content of heart
           in the glow of your love

John Lyons

Anticipations

The grace that comes from knowing
       that gift of consciousness
that places us at the very centre
       of the imagined universe
that inner voice that guides
       and informs us
that is aware
       of all our yesterdays
and yet so eagerly
       anticipates each tomorrow

The grace that comes
       from feeling
that builds an intimate
       world of sense
of enriched experience
       and of all the emotions
that are ours
       to have and to hold

John Lyons