England 1941
By pond’s still quiet,
November found
‘neath blackened trees
and leaves of brown,
that chime through winds,
season’s decay
rustle the drying grasses to say
or whisper their seed tossed song.
Where prayer is heard
in sweetest words,
bless offspring’s journey,
brave, yet long…
Reeds, by pond’s edge, do blush
with naked stalks and seeds that flush
this breeze with passers by.
Where clouds of grey and white on blue
hang low, and brooding up the view
soften this season’s sigh…
Now above my head a thunder rises,
behind a cloud on blue, surprises
peace with a warring sound.
Two birds of war, in roaring chase,
bend wing on wing around the face
of the grey insipidous cloud.
There turn and twist by engine’s roar,
dive and stretch to fight for one more
breath, or one more shroud…
These two alone in November’s sky
bring anxious thoughts that recall why
I’m sitting here
amidst this November’s season.
Where God’s inspired this nature’s reason,
so disturbed by mankind’s cry
to peace and conquest, home and faith,
for loved one’s whose lives we face
this terror from the sky.
Where wisps of clouds become our means
to face the birds of war in seams
where their anger waits and hides.
These two on wooded edge, now slowly
chase, evade, and roar past lowly
dancing o’er the distant shore.
Yellow blasts and glints of sun
as black unfurls and spirals run
above to yonder clouds.
Where now the victor soars to heights
while in defeat and smoke the fight
twists slowly at the horizon,
and ends in forest’s shroud.
Tomorrow, I may be so blessed,
to rise to clouds of height and best
the anger of this season.
My bird and I pray for reason
to see us through.
There seek another autumn’s day,
and in it offer thanks and pray
my soul comes back to you.
jaybluepoems 