Single pigeon

A single pigeon
          sitting on the very summit
of a conifer
          possesses innate skills
that I could never
          in a million years master
For one : it can fly
          and for another : it has
a sense of direction
          second to none

I observe it now
          against the backdrop
of a grey sky
          preening its feathers
as the sun rises
          It is emblematic
of nature
          but knows nothing
of itself
          does not see itself
has no I
          and does not write

John Lyons

Monday morning

Suddenly green again
          the fields that the summer
burnt away
          vanished the crisp dry grass
now rolling pastures
          and lush meadow

Tireless renewal
          what the sun scorches
the sun brings back to life
          and the days when we
went down to the sea
          are behind us
when we sat on the promenade
          watching the waves
of families as they passed by
          the children eating their lollies
the parents
          chatting their lives away

There’ll be no more roses
          until next spring
though imports may
          see us through

The pebbles and stones
          and sand on the beach
and the sea with a history
          all of its own
an archaeology even
          a strange murky kingdom
not quite of this world
          Winter is a simplification
it strips away all but
          the very essence of life
what must go on
          In the summer love
comes out to play
          to frolic
in wide open spaces
          In the winter it gets cosy
draws up a blanket
          lies still : lovers all
hugging their silent dreams
          through the faltering hours

John Lyons

Nature’s upper hand

   Notice so soon
         after the drought
   the long weeks
         without rain
   how soon the grass
         has returned to green
    
   One evening
         the heavens opened
   with a sudden storm
         now the coarse dry fields  
   we walked across
         are back to lush
   pasture as though
         the past had never been

John Lyons

Bloodlands

To speak of blood
     what is in it
what feeds it
     what raises it
its metaphysical weight
     the price of it
the thirst for it
     the lack of it
 
 bloodied beauty
      of the red rose
 of a red sun sinking
      below the horizon
whether the making
      of good or bad blood
the tangled bloodlines
      that bind us together
that set us apart
       the war and peace

John Lyons

Nothing matters

Nothing matters
more than love

and we are all aware
of how exponentially

it grows in the practice
in the exercise

of our feelings
in gestures

of reaching
and touching

and simply being
together in silence

It wakes with us
and we put it to bed

at night : and those
delicious moments

when time plays
truant are love’s

gift to love
Cherish it

it is your truth
it is the essence

of your beauty
let its flame

burn forever
and a day

John Lyons

Thanks for the memory

Every unsuspecting fibre
          wracked with the pain
of silence and neglect
          a litter of leaves
on the path to the Tower
          tossing and turning
in the grime and dust
          Life is long

: so too
          the days and hours
of absence filled with
          hope’s sullen reprobates
and at night the grinding
          of foxes’ teeth
and the darkness that settles
          around the heart

John Lyons

Love’s loose leaves

In the fierce wind overnight
leaves stripped from the lilac tree

a moonless sky that casts
deep shadows across my heart

one season here another there
what does it amount to

as we travel the life circuit
and drift from dream to dream?

John Lyons