The three of us

My two kingfishers still haunt the pond—
           today at noon in the bright sun and breeze
and perfect temperature
           I’m sitting here by one of the gurgling brooks
dipping a French water-pen in the limpid crystal
           and using it to write these lines
again watching the feathered couple
           as they fly and sport athwart the water
so close
           almost touching into its surface

Indeed there seems to be three of us—
           for nearly an hour
I indolently observe and accompany them
           as they dart and turn
and take their airy gambols
           sometimes far up the creek
disappearing for a few moments
           and then sure enough returning
to perform most of their flight
           within sight of me
as if they knew I appreciated and absorbed
           their vitality their spirituality their faithfulness
and the rapid vanishing delicate lines
           of moving yet quiet electricity they draw for me
across the spread of the grass
           the trees and the blue sky
while the brook babbles on and on
           and the shadows of the boughs
dapple in the sunshine around me
           and the cool west-by-nor’-west wind
faintly soughs
           in the thick bushes and tree tops

Walt Whitman

(adapted from Specimen Days by John Lyons)

Endgame

The patter of rain after days
           of unbroken sunshine
grey skies and a hush
           across the world
birdsong silenced
           and the foxes snug
in their burrows
           As shadows shelter
beneath oak and ash
           I marshal my dreams
and plan for a future
           without her

John Lyons

Natural philosophy

On the footpath
           in the garden yesterday
a butterfly settled
           its wings raised
so that only
           the dark underside showed

At first I had mistaken it
           for a leaf
but though there was
           a gentle breeze
the butterfly did not move
           not even the slightest tremor :
it stood its ground
           for ten minutes or more
and I wondered whether
           this was not an extravagance
to idle away
           such a stretch of time
given the brevity
           of its life

But there perhaps
           was the lesson it was
unwittingly there
           to deliver to me
and to you dear reader
           without a care in the world

John Lyons

Pure white petals

Lying in the dust
           the pure white petals
of the magnolia
           are tossed
this way and that
           as they catch the breeze

The tree
           with its naked branches
stands forlorn :
           its blooms were ahead
of their time and now
           their time has passed

Life has its debris
           and beauty its span
perhaps love too
           but come spring
the magnolia
           will bloom again—
as for love tell me please
           when will love return ?

John Lyons

At midnight – the moon hour

There should be a straight line
           between you and me
but that is not the case—
           between us lies the ocean and land
with mountains and deep valleys
           and cascades of water that pour
into streams and rivers
           and there are vast plains
and semi-deserts
           and all manner of obstacles
are strewn across our paths
           yours to me and mine to you

A body is to be cradled
           in the body of another
under the starlight
           that invades the earth
at midnight – the moon hour
           when the forest leaves
turn to silver and chill winds
           rattle the bones
of dying trees

Here we lie naked
           innocent nimble names
noted in love’s ledger
           a legend still moist
with aching breath
           determined never to die

John Lyons

Sitting in the park

When the wind shifts
to the north I shudder

the scene is one
of endless green

a beauty bathed
in sunlight

that filters through
the shadow of trees

People are walking
their dogs but the dogs

long to be released
from their leads

long to romp
in the long grass

A man throws a ball
and his dog leaps

into the air
catches it before

it hits the ground
I watch them play

but when the wind shifts
to the north I shudder

John Lyons