02-24-2014, 07:13 PM
Revision 1 - (Thanks to all and kindofahippy and tara in particular for their in depth feedback) Major edits are in bold.
Everything is still here
as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight;
each blinked into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.
This frozen silent third acre
amplifies a familiarity
rustling in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.
Days passed tumbling
from ivy clad banks
lopping the heads of daffodils
we'd planted the past October.
"Planting patience" you called it;
digging your past to seed my future.
Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the sleeping bulbs tonight
and I recall scepticism
of the promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.
A sullen recollection peers
from the frost squinted gable window
of the shed where I served my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
frustration chisel-chipped in its grey mortar
consequence cemented in its stone walls.
A silvery limbed young birch is sheltered
by the snow flecked stoic old chestnut
who's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers-
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling." you noted recently.
I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.
The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and rippling into inky floodwater
drums a forgotten question
of transience and impermanence.
"You'll follow them to find out son,
in your own time." Follow I did.
Roused by the door handle's cold click
to fizzing conversation, bottle-clinks
and twinkling flutes I pause,
absorbing everything
that's still here.
Everything is still here.
Original
Everything is still here
as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.
A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence
that rustle in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.
Tumbling from ivy clad banks
I'd lop the heads of daffodils
we planted one October.
Planting patience you called it;
Digging the past
to bury the future.
Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs
and I recall scepticism
of a promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.
A salt and sugar crust
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls.
The old stooped chestnut stands stoic
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently.
I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.
The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater
drums the reflection of a forgotten question
of departures and transience.
"Where do they go Dad?"
"You'll follow to find out in your own time."
Roused by the door handle's cold click
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale,
absorbing stillness.
Everything is still here.
Everything is still here
as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight;
each blinked into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.
This frozen silent third acre
amplifies a familiarity
rustling in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.
Days passed tumbling
from ivy clad banks
lopping the heads of daffodils
we'd planted the past October.
"Planting patience" you called it;
digging your past to seed my future.
Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the sleeping bulbs tonight
and I recall scepticism
of the promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.
A sullen recollection peers
from the frost squinted gable window
of the shed where I served my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
frustration chisel-chipped in its grey mortar
consequence cemented in its stone walls.
A silvery limbed young birch is sheltered
by the snow flecked stoic old chestnut
who's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers-
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling." you noted recently.
I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.
The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and rippling into inky floodwater
drums a forgotten question
of transience and impermanence.
"You'll follow them to find out son,
in your own time." Follow I did.
Roused by the door handle's cold click
to fizzing conversation, bottle-clinks
and twinkling flutes I pause,
absorbing everything
that's still here.
Everything is still here.
Original
Everything is still here
as I exhale, unfurling worries
as wisps of silk that purl
and shimmer in puddled moonlight,
each breathed into hindsight
by the first stars I ever saw.
A frozen one third acre of silence
amplifies echoes of innocence
that rustle in the briars
and sloe bushes, as I did
when still small enough
to evade their barbs.
Tumbling from ivy clad banks
I'd lop the heads of daffodils
we planted one October.
Planting patience you called it;
Digging the past
to bury the future.
Youthful unkempt clouds of daisies
blanket the deep sleeping bulbs
and I recall scepticism
of a promised blossoming;
I know better now
as you did then.
A salt and sugar crust
coats the stone garden shed
where I served out my sentences
among pitch forks and pick axes;
Discipline and consequence
cemented within its walls.
The old stooped chestnut stands stoic
flecked with strands of snow.
He's outgrown my treehouse
and stopped dropping conkers
since I stopped stringing them.
"...needs felling..." you noted recently.
I won't hear of it, the sapling can wait.
The dull beat of unseen swans
arrowing across Farnhnam field
and plashing the inky floodwater
drums the reflection of a forgotten question
of departures and transience.
"Where do they go Dad?"
"You'll follow to find out in your own time."
Roused by the door handle's cold click
and warm escaping clinks,
I turn on the threshold
pausing to inhale,
absorbing stillness.
Everything is still here.