The corn in the sunlight
shivers before the harvest,
as the wheel of the year turns.
We eat the bread.
We drink the wine.
The year is reborn.
The sun returns.
We endure winters.
We work and we sleep.

The landscape is stubble
shaved by the Reaper.
In the Spring, we will
plough it under and
plant seeds.

The landscape is stubble
shaved by the Reaper.
Plough it under and
plant seeds in the Spring.

I sit and watch as
the great wheel of the year turns
and the virus ploughs
a furrow through our lives and
the Reaper rests before the
Autumn and Winter harvest.

blue is the colour
and I must never name her.
She is an image,
imagined, a cloud, his wife,
and I am jealous green

to get up / show up
fight again - the same same day -
the grind - the spiral -
one more day without her and
one more day of empty grief

nature poetry,
lush with life and death, Autumn
and Spring - reflections

under a white duvet
of sky, an early autumn
landscape waits breathing,
leaves still green, soon will turn and
fall - new leaves will come - after

there is a tune which
whispers to me from a dream
and fades with the light

stars I cannot see
hidden by the daylight - dance
all I see is blue