Winter blues

Winter blues

Summer has finally fallen into winter
a gun-grey sky hangs over the city

and the cold has returned and with it
our warm winter clothing

our woolen sweaters and heavy coats
An icy wind plays its dull arpeggios

as it whips around trees and tall structures
the evenings are dark and the nights long

and on the streets there is so much more
hustle and bustle as people hurry on their way

and poetry struggles to find expression
to see what has never before been seen

by the side of a warm fire memories
are pulled from the past and turned over

in the mind memories of better times
of better days when all was right with the world

John Lyons


Unless the seed. . .

Unless the seed. . .

On one side
            the long neatly trimmed box hedge
                        a fragility of shimmering bronze
            in the fast fading half-light
                        of this misbegotten winter’s day

On the other
            by the lap-panelled fence
                        an apple tree – perhaps a Bramley –
            from which all but two crisp leaves have fallen
                        but to which twenty or more

            still cling on for their dear fruitless lives
                        roundly reluctant to detach
            to tumble gravely to the ground
                        to take their chances in the damp

fertile soil
            Soon it will be dark : soon
                        the endless agony of the long night
            will grip those prone to despair while
                        ravenous couples gorge on scraps

of unrequited love
            Outside the unkempt lawn is marked
                        with narrow trails blazed by frisky cats
            and foxes that gently indent the lush green grass
                        as they ply their necessary trade

John Lyons


White echoes

A gentle cascade of thoughts and words to fill a Sunday morning in which the world is struggling to awake from its deep sleep. The sound of traffic in the distance but otherwise little movement. Silence almost complete. A perfect dream-state. A time to make love and little else.

White echoes

red kite

How many lush green fields
      and slender silver streams
how many gold-rimmed sunsets
      how many spiralling kites
will fit into this endless silence ?
      Who heard our footsteps
as we walked through the park
      who saw us climb the hill
as squirrels jumped
      from tree to tree
as children filled
      their lives with play ?
Dreams and hope and desire
      grew within us
and time offered us
      its pledges which
we did not dare to believe
      Who saw as the curtains
were drawn
      as you laid down beside me
laid in my arms
      laid in my heart ?
The wind was still
      through the night
as spiders wove
      and the roses
took their rest
      Today birds will swoop
and feast on the berries
      the chestnuts will swell
on the branches
      and leaves will form
a carpet to take us
      into winter
and to a landscape
      sketched by frost
modelled by snow
      and draped in silence
Where will love be then
      and hope and dreams ?
Where will our shadows lie
      what scenes will be staged
within the theatre
      of our blind ecstasies
what life will be left
      to be led
by our bartered blood ?

John Lyons